


We Fall Out Of Line

by ceruleanquill



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - MAMA (Music Video), M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 52,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3771121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceruleanquill/pseuds/ceruleanquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Oh Sehun's life is all cliché, really. It starts with getting entangled in the company of a group of misfits, and ends in the arms of a stranger who takes his breath away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for ohunlimited@LJ round 2015.  
> This is the revised version. Fixed a few errors that I happened to spot belatedly, edited several lines, etc. Unbetaed.  
> Check out the [playlist](http://8tracks.com/_wefalloutofline/we-fall-out-of-line), too, if you'd like. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own EXO; only this story is mine.

  **i.**  
  
Sehun hits  _CTRL+S_  once, thinks better of it, repeats it ten thousand times, uploads a backup copy to two different cloud storage accounts, saves another one in his hard drive, and another in a flash drive.  
  
Byun Baekhyun, sharp-tongued former colleague with a mangled brain-mouth filter, once called it  _‘neurosis’_  and recommended a visit to the psychiatrist stat; but Sehun prefers to call it  _‘prudence’_ , and being prudent never hurt anyone.  
  
The sixteen-inch LED television mounted opposite the bed splashes multiple hues all over the pale, unembellished wall that he’s currently leaning on. It’s about the only color his drab apartment gets. As usual, the news channel is on but Sehun hardly ever pays attention to it. He doesn’t really have to when he’s working for an online news portal that rolls out real-time feeds faster than any reporter can say  _“this just in!”_  He leaves it on anyway, volume turned low so that it’s only a faint murmur, just enough to ripple over the static. Just so it’s not too quiet.  
  
Sehun wrinkles his nose at whatever remains of the pack of ramen sitting beside the keyboard. He’s been at this since noon, if his half-eaten lunch of crunchy, uncooked noodles is any indication, and he’s completely lost track of time. Which reminds him—  
  
“Oh shit, what time is it?” Tiny lines of tension appear on his forehead. He takes a sweeping glance to see if there is anything in his immediate surroundings that can give him an answer. Well, there’s his phone, but it’s all the way over on the bed, and he’s not too keen on uprooting himself from his spot right now.  
  
He turns back to his laptop with a resigned sigh. Squinting at the long string of codes interspersed with blocks of paragraphs, he takes a second to deliberate the wisdom of pressing  _F11_  next just so he can take a look at the virtual cuckoo clock pinned on the desktop. But then exiting out of Full Screen Mode feels too much like he’s _done_ , which he  _isn’t_. It’s like he’s violating his personal work ethic or something quasi-profound like that.  
  
Also, resizing the window now and blowing it back up later will result in the cursor being dislodged, which shouldn’t be that big of a deal, except that he’s working in the middle of large chunks of untabbed,  _raw_  codes. He’s trying to decide if anything in this world is even worth the migraine he’ll get from painstakingly retracing his steps later.  
  
Just then his phone lets out a loud whistle beside his pillow. Wisps of dark fringe fall over his eyes when his head immediately snaps up. Groaning, he begrudgingly leaves his comfortable perch at the narrow table, which serves as both his dining area and work desk. Two giant steps and then he’s climbing onto the bed and crawling over a small pile of laundry tangled with unmade sheets. Having a tiny studio-type apartment basically means everything is more or less four steps away.  
  
He finds a new text message.  
  
More importantly, the time reads  _2:10 PM._  
  
_**From: Chanyeollie-hyung**  
Sehunniiieeee~~ you’re coming tonight right? My place 8 PM ok? YOU HAVE TO COME!!!!_  
  
Sehun snickers. He can almost hear Park Chanyeol say it exactly the way  _only_  Park Chanyeol would say it. And it’s amusing how even over text Chanyeol is irrepressibly boisterous. He’s as tall as his voice is deep, and if you get exposed to it long enough, it sticks to you, like acrid cigarette smoke sticks to your clothes and each strand of your hair, and you hear it in your head even when he’s not actually around.  
  
Sehun replies with:  _=P_  
  
He tosses the phone down, leaving it to drown in a sea of blankets and dirty clothes, and goes to resume his work.  
  
He does hit  _F11_  about twenty minutes later, though.  
  
At exactly three o’clock, Sehun throws on a black turtleneck sweater and slips into a thick, jet parka. He fastens a mask over the lower half of his face, hooking elastic strings behind each ear. From the bedside table he grabs a faded-seaweed messenger bag, slightly frayed along the edges of pocket flaps, and carefully slings the thick strap over his head. A ribbed knit beanie wraps snugly around his head and he tucks his ears under the folded brim on his way out.  
  
Sehun knows he might be a little  _too_  early. Although it doesn't take an hour from his place to  _Jamwon_ , it  _is_  New Year’s Eve and he’s not taking any chances. He really would much rather not get caught in the massive rush hour mob. He keeps his gaze low, hands in pockets, as he ambles down the hallway. The sound is loud when he zips up his parka just before he leaves the comfortable heat of the building, and pushes into the bitter cold of late December.  
  
The sun is still out, but the wintry air nips at his skin nonetheless. He contemplates hauling up the fur-lined hoodie and letting it engulf his entire head; but then he figures that looking like he has a black hole for a face will probably  _draw_  rather than ward off attention so he decides to leave it down.  
  
Sehun makes the short walk from his apartment in  _Nakwon-dong_  to  _Jongno sam-ga_  station. As if on instinct, he pulls his right hand from his pocket, holding his palm forward like he’s waiting for a high five. He smiles a little when a light breeze glides between his fingers, finding it not at all unwelcome in spite of the chill.  
  
As he makes his way to the steps leading down to the subway, he maneuvers the bag in front of his thigh, taking care not to jostle it too much while he fumbles for his phone. The notification light is blinking a pale blue. He doesn’t revive the screen nor unlock the phone, much less actually play any music. He simply connects the jack and plugs earbuds in. It usually discourages people from striking up a conversation.  
  
Sehun takes line three which runs south of the river, down to  _Sinsa_. He quickly walks past a few empty seats and heads to a corner a little away from the doors. Other passengers are highly unlikely to favor this general area when there’s so much prime space free for the taking—or so he hopes, anyway.  
  
The parka stays fastened even though he feels like he’s fallen into a boiler. It’s still only a comfortable thawing now but he’s guessing his skin will be prickling by the fifth stop. That’s fine, he thinks, eight stations isn’t too bad. He decides to check his inbox just to give himself something to do.  
  
There are two unread messages from Chanyeol from twenty-three minutes ago, probably while Sehun was still in the shower. He has to try not to chuckle when he finds a selca of his dumb  _hyung_  sticking out his tongue at the camera. Sometimes it’s too easy to forget that Chanyeol is actually two years older than him.  
  
_**From: Chanyeollie-hyung**  
Did you finish work yet? Why are you working on NYE anyway?? _  
  
Sehun prompts the virtual keypad and types in a response. Somewhere in the background a female voice announces their arrival at  _Chungmuro_  station in four different languages.  
  
_**To: Chanyeollie-hyung**  
Of course I did. Because unlike you Master Chefs, I am but a humble office-worker with fixed work hours.  
  
**From: Chanyeollie-hyung**  
Ok first of all, you work from home.  
  
**To: Chanyeollie-hyung**  
Doesn’t mean I don’t have fixed work hours.  
  
**From: Chanyeollie-hyung**  
Which you can spread out over the week as you wish??  
  
**To: Chanyeollie-hyung**  
You Master Chefs do not comprehend the concept of deadlines. The news waits for no one.  
  
**From: Chanyeollie-hyung**  
THE GODDAMN OVEN WAITS FOR NO ONE OK AND EXCUSE THE FUCK OUT OF YOU WE WERE COLLEAGUES FOR 2.5 YRS YOU ASSHAT!!!_  
  
Sehun almost snorts. He’s actually correct on both accounts.  
  
Chanyeol was one of the two youngest staff members when Sehun started his six-month internship in his old company where he was eventually absorbed as a regular employee. Byun Baekhyun was the other one, but he was in the editorial team while Chanyeol and Sehun where both in content design.  
  
Chanyeol always brought the most  _amazing_  food and he let Sehun mooch off his packed lunch every time. Nobody was surprised when he quit as soon as he saved enough capital to start his own restaurant. Sehun also quit not long after, for entirely different reasons.  
  
His mouth quirks behind his mask at the thought of food, and he types a random:  _I’m hungry._  
  
_**From: Chanyeollie-hyung**  
So come by my house tonight!! I’M COOKING!! :D :D :D_  
  
Sehun’s eyes roll because, well, that’s not  _obvious_  at all since Chanyeol does not actually  _cook for a living_.  
  
He thinks he hears  _Sinsa_  station over the speakers, but between the obstruction in his ears and being assaulted by excessive amounts of caps lock, exclamation points, and emojis, he can’t be too sure. He takes a gander at the overhead monitors hanging from the center of the roof and reads the words scrolling under the looping advertisement.  
  
_Sinsa_ , it is.  
  
_**To: Chanyeollie-hyung**  
Ew, I hate your cooking._  
  
The train decelerates until it comes to a progressive stop. The doors begin to slide open.  
  
_**From: Chanyeollie-hyung**  
LIES!!! :D :D :D_  
  
There’s honestly no argument there so Sehun shoves the phone back into the back pocket of his bag without sending a reply. He moves from his spot only when he’s sure that he’s the last one to step out. Going along with the flow of traffic, he tries to make himself as small as possible, which is  _quite_  the challenge with his broad shoulders and long limbs. He purposely stays close to the wall, hanging back until the small crowd grows even sparser. He arrives at his exit eventually, bracing himself as he lumbers back up to the frigid outdoors.  
  
  
  
Winter has stripped the gingko trees that line the stretch of  _Garosu-gil_  bare. Sehun walks along a row of fashion shops—most of them newly renovated and some looking like they’ve seen better days.  
  
He remembers his uncle telling him how charming and lively  _Garosu-gil_  was back in Seoul’s heyday. Back when Seoul was considered South Korea’s central nervous system. Way before the Great Riot that destroyed a vast majority of the old capital, virtually paralyzing it and forcing widespread migration to Busan and other minor districts in the south. He was practically a newborn when it happened. He can’t really say that he can imagine this place looking like anything other than how it is now—small stacks of rubble, fissured concrete, soot-stained walls, and all.  
  
Sehun keeps his head low as he takes long, quick strides. A group of giggling girls brush by him  _accidentally-on-purpose_  on their way to a basement shop that mainly sells fashion accessories. His back stiffens, brows drawing together to form narrow grooves on his forehead as he follows the trail of long, thin cracks in the pavement. At least he’s not being chased down by a talent scout anymore. He’s too old for that, anyway.  
  
  
“It's the  _eyebrows_ , man. They stand out too much,” opined Baekhyun around a crispy piece of Doritos that one time Sehun whined about the dire  _need_  to be inconspicuous and the great pains he took to try to achieve it.  
  
"Or,” a thoughtful pause punctuated by obnoxious, crunchy chewing, “I mean, you’re fairly  _okay_ -looking in general, I guess, but you also look like... I don’t know—a  _walking noodle_?”  
  
Sehun recalls flicking his chopsticks at the smaller man and feeling vindicated when Baekhyun gasped in horror at the bright red specks of  _gochujang_  that adorned his white dress shirt.  
  
  
Sehun passes a slightly bent light post next to a narrow alley with a line of rusty racks, onto which a couple of bicycles are locked. He slows when he approaches the quaint café that follows it.  
  
He was about twenty-three when he first started to appreciate the wonders of caffeine and acquired a taste for the strong, bitter kick of a fresh brew. Though he still veers toward the sweeter variety—an offshoot of past bubble tea addiction, it seems like—he’s never looked back.  
  
Inside the coffee shop is a loft fenced with fancy wrought-iron railings for guests with a preference for a higher vantage point. The bare walls, polished wood, and understated interior in earthy colors give it a warm, sophisticated vibe. But the best thing about it all, Sehun thinks, is the fact that the entire face of the café is  _wide open_. The thick transparent panes at either end suggest that the place can be sealed in without taking away the view whenever necessary, but they seem to do so only during bad weather.  
  
Here, fresh air is free to circulate. Camouflage is viable. Escape is easy.  
  
Sehun’s usual table is the one on the farthest end, closest to the sidewalk. He searches for that first and finds it occupied. In fact, a quick scan of the place tells him that it's a full house today. He frowns, silently bemoaning his luck. He’s really hungry and in dire need of coffee fix, though, and so he figures he’ll just get something to go. However, the moment he spots the long queue in front of the counter (okay, there were probably four people in line, but anything more than two is  _a lot_  as far as he’s concerned) he shoots that idea down.  
  
Quickly backpedalling, he decides that he can live with the hunger and caffeine withdrawal for now. Maybe he can try again later on the way back. Hopefully they still have chocolate chip muffins in stock then.  
  
Just as he’s beginning to walk away he gets a strange, crawling feeling that someone is watching him. He halts briefly when suddenly there’s a tingling sensation down his spine. Ice-cold chill strikes through his chest like a thunderbolt, making his skin crawl. It’s the oddest thing but Sehun doesn’t think too much of it. He keeps walking, and soon enough it fades away. Reaching the end of the long street, he crosses to the other side of the road. It isn’t long before he reaches a familiar tunnel that leads to a vast stretch of open field.  
  
Relief washes over him when he walks through the empty parking lot and sees that the space is practically deserted. Three people with a book in hand are sitting separately under the shade of a long, continuous chain of arched canopies on the perimeter of the field. Joggers and bikers are few and far in between. A two-way byroad, mostly for bikers, separates the vast park grounds from  _Hangang_.  
  
Sehun tugs off his mask and undoes his parka. He stows the mask into a pocket as he trudges closer to the river, stopping at the top of the stone steps that lead to the water.   
  
  
_“Five-thirty P.M. on New Year’s Eve, okay? At Hangang Park in Jamwon. Don’t forget, Sehunnie.”_  
  
  
One hand comes up to clasp around the strap across his chest while the other fishes for his phone. He pulls out the earbuds and disconnects the jack. The screen lights up at the press of a button.  
  
It’s exactly five o’clock in the afternoon. He’s early.  
  
Sehun’s mouth quirks up at the corners. He feels strangely accomplished. His uncle never did take kindly to his constant tardiness.  
  
He descends midway to the landing and takes a seat on a step. Mostly he sits on the lower part of his parka, but there’s a bit of damp coolness that seeps through the sliver of denim that directly touches cold, hard surface. Sehun detaches the strap from his frame and gingerly sets the bag down on the steps. He folds his legs in, arms wrapping around knees.  
  
It’s quiet. It's noticeably colder now than when he stepped out of the apartment earlier. The tip of his nose stings, unused to the bite of winter air because he hardly ever goes out. Sunlight is slowly beginning to fade. Wind softly whistles in his ears, and he sighs.  
  
From where he sits, he can see vehicles traversing the long, winding bridge that extends over  _Hangang_. Far beyond it he can make out the distinct shape of Namsan Tower through a screen of fog. It had been one of the very first landmarks that the government reconstructed after much of it was burned down. Now, it stands the tallest in a sea of buildings and steel columns—ghosts of past destruction and promise of a new beginning.  
  
Sehun watches cars zip in and out of his field of vision; watches a world that’s fast-paced, crammed, busy, trying to get back on its feet. He knows he’s a part of it and yet he’s never felt more detached. Everything seems so far away. Everything is so quiet. Everything just  _is_ , and he’s just  _Oh Sehun_.  
  
He never really understood why his uncle Donghae loved this place so much until now. For a second he regrets not grabbing some chicken and beer before coming over. His uncle loved those. It’s all they’d had for the past five New Year’s Eve dinners. Alcohol is usually prohibited, but they let Sehun in with them anyway. Holiday spirit and all that.  
  
It’s not much but he’s always happy to just see his uncle stuff his face with the best chicken in all of Seoul until he’s ready to pass out from contentment. It’s the least he can do to repay him for singlehandedly raising him, after all. Some traditions don’t have to change just because everything else has.  
  
  
_“Happy, Chief?” Sehun asks, grinning.  
  
Donghae leans back, patting his tummy, and flashes a big toothy smile.  
  
“You bet!”_  
  
  
Sehun jolts when the phone rings in his hand.  
  
“Oh Sehun!!!” Chanyeol’s voice booms through the receiver even before he can utter a  _‘hello’_. “You never told me if you were coming or not, you little shit! You’re coming, right?”  
  
He sounds hopeful, but like he won’t be too surprised to hear a  _‘no’_. It makes Sehun feel a little guilty. He can’t seem to stop himself from sounding it, too.  
  
“I can’t, hyung.” His head tips forward until his forehead is resting on his left knee.  
  
“Why not? I made  _buffalo wings_!”  
  
Sehun bites back a whimper. He should have known that Chanyeol would know  _exactly_  how to twist his arm.  
  
His breath is visible when he lets it out. And now his mind is on overdrive—flashing hazy images of drab, gray skies, ominous clouds, impossibly congested streets; of loud gasps, a large signboard falling over the edge followed by violent clanging of steel; of deafening screams, blood pooling on the pavement—  
  
Sehun’s gut churns.  
  
“You  _know_  why, hyung.”  
  
“Well. Yeah, but it’s just me and Baekhyun and a couple other people—it’s barely a crowd. And free food! You know you  _love_  my buffalo wings! Come on, Sehunah!”  
  
By  _‘a couple other people’_  he knows Chanyeol means his entire neighborhood, and  _yes_ , that is most definitely a _crowd_.  
  
“I can’t, hyung, sorry. Besides, I’m not at home right now.” He catches the dull, steady noise of a knife pounding on a wooden board.  
  
“Oh?” The surprise in Chanyeol’s tone isn’t misplaced at all, considering that Sehun has practically turned into a recluse ever since—  
  
“Where are you?”  
  
Sehun tilts his head a bit, gaze resting on the messenger bag sitting beside his feet.  
  
“ _Hangang_  Park. In  _Jamwon_.” His voice comes out low, weak, and he almost flinches at how tired he sounds.  
  
The silence drags a little longer than usual. For once Chanyeol is quiet. Sehun can imagine him standing in place stiffly, meat cleaver hanging in midair.  
  
“I see.” He probably doesn’t know what to say. Sehun doesn’t think there’s anything to be said at this point, really.  
  
The chopping resumes. “Well, if you change your mind-”  
  
“I know where you live,” he finishes for him. Sehun hears a laugh on the other line and something about it feels so reassuring, so familiar.  
  
“Sehunnie,” Chanyeol sounds solemn. Sehun raises his head and adjusts the phone against his ear. “We’re  _literally_ a dangerous combination, you and I. But you know I’m always-”  
  
“Yeah,” breathes Sehun. He chuckles softly as he recalls that one time his hair almost caught on fire because Chanyeol was being an idiot and Sehun was a high-strung fledgling.  
  
“Yeah, I know,” he smiles a little. “I appreciate it, hyung.”  
  
“Okay,” There’s a faint clattering of steel—pans, maybe—in the background. “Hey, I have to go. Happy New Year, kid!”  
  
“Yeah, you too. Save some buffalo wings for me!”  
  
Chanyeol laughs again and sing-songs,  _“I’ll think about it,”_  before cutting the call.  
  
  
Now the time reads  _5:29 P.M._  
  
Sehun’s chest is suddenly tight.  
  
His body feels heavy as he gets on his feet. Bending down, the bag is gathered up from the ground and he slings it back on. He unzips the main compartment in the middle, and at that moment he swears it’s the single loudest sound in the world. He reaches in with both hands until his fingers are wrapping around the swell of a vase.  
  
His hands are cold but the nickel plated brass feels like ice against his skin as he carries it down the remaining steps until he reaches the narrow landing at the edge of the river. It’s kind of beautiful how the sunset casts a red-orange glow to the shiny, patterned silver and muted deep shades of blue, almost making it look like it’s aflame.  
  
“Well. Here we are,” Sehun heaves.  
  
He feels like he should probably be saying something right now. A  _good bye_. A  _thank you; I love you, uncle_. But he comes up with nothing. His throat feels dry, tongue rough against the roof of his mouth. He knows that the clock is ticking and he has a promise to keep.  
  
Sehun carefully loosens the threaded lid until it detaches completely.  
  
  
_“Scatter my ashes as far and wide as you can, alright? I’m counting on you.”_  
  
  
Sehun raises the urn higher above the water and then tilts it to the side. Fine dust slowly trickle over the rim and—in a moment of courage, or complete and utter stupidity, he’s not really sure—he centers all of his focus and silently throws out a command.  
  
In an instant, he feels the light breeze picking up until it’s blowing in gusts. The wild fluctuation sends irregular ripples over the surface of the water. For a second it appears to gather the ashes, spinning them around haphazardly. Then Sehun is blowing out through his mouth experimentally—and all of a sudden a strong blast of wind rips through, scattering the ashes far in different directions until he can’t see them anymore.  
  
He watches the disturbance in the air dissipate entirely; until all that’s left is a peaceful hum.  
  
Sehun smiles wistfully.  _Mission accomplished._  
  
He doesn’t cry. It's been a full week, after all. And before that, his uncle had been on death row for far longer. Five years. Sehun’s had all that time to grieve. He blinks, eyes squeezing shut for a second as a dull pain thuds in his temple. He expected that. Still, he stays a while longer to see the end of daylight to completion. He has nowhere to hurry to, anyway; no one waiting for him to come with chicken and beer anymore.  
  
  
  
It’s right during the height of rush hour when he begins to head back. It feels like he’s pretty much exceeded his Acts of Bravery/Idiocy quota for the week, so he decides to hail a cab instead of taking the subway again. It’s not the cheapest option, but it’s his best one at the moment, everything considered.  
  
He's about five minutes away from his building when it dawns on him that he’s completely forgotten to stop by the café. He scrambles to evaluate his options and promptly realizes, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that he has _none_. They’re probably closing up now, anyway.  
  
As if on cue, his stomach begins to grumble. He sucks in a breath, poised to huff in distress, but stops himself just in time. His eyes flash in panic, cheeks puffed out, as he throws a furtive glance at the back of the cab driver’s head. Luckily the old man doesn’t appear to notice anything strange.  
  
_Slowly_ , Sehun exhales.  
  
He goes right to food hunting the second he’s home. He grabs a large half-empty bottle of water that’s sitting on top of the table and takes a swig. Yanking the refrigerator door open, his face twists in a grimace when he finds that there’s nothing in there but a couple boxes of leftover.  
  
It’s not even nine in the evening and yet he’s feeling so faint, exhaustion seeping from every pore of his body. The headache hasn’t abated at all. If anything, it’s probably gotten worse. He’s lucky he didn’t pass out straight after that little stunt he pulled at the Han River. The effect on his body is always worse when it's done deliberately. Plus, he’s out of shape and  _way_  out of practice. Mainly because  _practice_  is too dangerous, as past experience proves, and more importantly,  _against the law_.  
  
Sehun reaches for a sealed glass container of two-day old kimbap. He grabs a pair of chopsticks from the rack by the sink and the remote control on top of his pillow. At a press of a button, the television flickers to life.   
  
Vaguely, he registers the tail end of a breaking report. Something about a strange spell of warm wind detected in _Jungang-dong_  that lasted for about ten minutes.  
  
_...Red Flag Hybrid activity is suspected. Authorities in Busan have heightened security in the vicinity..._  
  
Hands trembling, Sehun switches to a different channel. He's bizarrely gripped with fear, not for himself but for a stranger miles away who probably only needed a little warmth in the middle of this frigid winter, and may be punished for it. No one’s going to look kindly on a Hybrid, especially not a  _Red Flag Hybrid_ , no matter the circumstance. This is something he’s long come to accept.  
  
If his uncle were here, he would probably squeeze his shoulder tightly, take a piece or two of chicken from his own share and add it to Sehun’s. He wouldn’t offer any words of assurance, or tell him that he understood what Sehun was feeling, or promise him that everything was going to be okay, because he wouldn’t know that. He wasn’t a Red Flag Hybrid like Sehun. Nobody Sehun knows is.  
  
He sits himself at the table, his back to the flashing colors. It’s still too quiet. The walls are too stifling. The kimbap is too dry and the water too flat. Nothing like chicken and beer.  
  
He adjusts the volume a little louder and lets the sound fill the gaping void. It doesn’t do much; there are too many cracks to cover, but it’s a start. He briefly considers staying up until midnight to welcome the New Year, but then he figures that there’s really no point.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Sehun wakes up to a dusting of whiteness collecting on his window frame and the loud growling of his stomach. Last night’s dinner was hardly satiating. And that reminds him that a trip to the market is in order.  
  
Sehun groans, petulantly throwing the comforter over his head. It’s soft and warm where he’s cocooned by pillows and bedsheets, and getting up means leaving said cocoon for the ruthless post-snowfall temperature outside. He _is_  hungry, though, so he does get up eventually, because it’s either that or starve to death.  
  
Business is just setting out and he takes great comfort in the fact that the streets are swept clean of people. A large chunk of the population might have partied a little too hard last night. He knows for a fact that Chanyeol and Baekhyun  _did_ , judging by the blurry photo of them with droopy eyes, crazy hair and even crazier grinning faces, looking delightfully  _smashed_  that he finds in his inbox. It comes with a very eloquent message that goes:  _“HAPPE NW YESR SEJUMN!!!@!!@#!!!”_  
  
**_To: Chanyeollie-hyung_** _  
Happy New Year to your ugly face too hyung! I’m dropping by later to collect my buffalo wings just so you know. =P_  
  
  
The trip to Lotte Mart is short. Sehun gathers the basic necessities—mostly packs of MSG and possibly more processed sugar than is healthy. He throws in a stalk of celery and two oranges in his basket as an afterthought, perhaps to make himself feel a little better about his life choices.  
  
Once that’s done, Sehun heads back to the apartment to drop off the shopping bag. He’s feeling oddly lucky so he elects to head back to  _Garosu-gil_  despite the message in his work email about a bug awaiting troubleshooting. Maybe that chocolate chip muffin and hot cup of coffee won’t be so elusive today.  
  
His luck holds up, apparently. Today's head-count is well below ten and every one of them is seated inside, which means that all the ones out by the front are unoccupied. It’s likely due to the fact that the snowfall has left a particularly harsh draft in its wake and nobody wants to start the year with a windburn. To be honest, he kind of expected to come and find the café sealed in by clear glass panels, but he’s not about to complain.  
  
Sehun pulls off the mask as he marches up to the non-existent line at the counter. He’s not quite a  _regular_ —it’s not like he goes out every day, or even every  _other_  day—but he does come by often enough to recognize the shorter man with full cheeks and single-lidded eyes that slant upward at the corners. By now he doesn’t have to look to know that his nameplate says ‘Kim Minseok’.  
  
It’s usually him manning the register whenever Sehun drops by, but he seems to occasionally take turns with a taller guy named 'Choi Minho', and another with a strange accent, blond hair and deep, kohl-lined, feline eyes, who’s called ‘Huang Zitao’. It’s a slow day today, though, and only Minseok and a bubbly, petite girl with an auburn bob—Park Sunyoung—are behind the counter.  
  
As usual, Minseok greets him with a warm, gummy smile, which Sehun returns with about a quarter of the enthusiasm.   
  
“Hey, Sehun, what would you like today?”   
  
Sehun’s lips press together, hands fisting at his sides. He can’t help being uneasy whenever he’s around people who don’t really  _know_  him, even though he’s familiar enough with Minseok that they can speak more casually with each other.  
  
“Hot medium dark mocha, please,” he absently drums fingers against the edge of the countertop.  
  
The barista hums and punches in Sehun’s order. “That’s it?” Minseok has one eyebrow quirked. There’s a friendly grin pulling at a corner of his mouth.  
  
Sehun pauses. “Ah!” He blinks, eyes wide, and then shyly amends, “Can I add a chocolate chip muffin to that?”  
  
Minseok grins. “Sure thing.”  
  
Sehun pays for his coffee and muffin, and Minseok hands him a rectangular buzzer—which, as it turns out, he’s really got no use for. Far too engrossed in his phone as he intently goes over some work email, he doesn’t notice the approach of a man carrying a tray.  
  
A medium-sized cardboard cup and a small plate of hot muffin slide into view without preamble, and Sehun is nearly startled out of his skin. He jumps in his seat, causing him to topple backwards in the process. Something he can’t see catches behind him and draws him forward before both forelegs of the chair can lift off of the ground.  
  
His head snaps up so fast he's lucky his neck doesn't break. There’s someone sitting across from him, staring at him with big bright eyes, the tightlipped smile on his boyish face genial.  
  
“Hi,” the stranger’s eyes wrinkle around the edges when he smiles bigger. “It’s Sehun, right?”  
  
And all of a sudden it's happening again: tingling down his spine, ice-cold chill darting right through his chest, goosebumps crawling up his skin. One second it’s throwing him totally off-kilter and then the next, it’s  _gone_.  
  
Meanwhile, the man is still there, watching him, still smiling. Clearly something isn’t right here. How does he even know his name? He looks familiar, though. Have they met before?  
  
The man casually gestures to the tray on the table.  
  
“Your name is on the cup,” he explains. “It’s a good thing I’m used to decoding Minseok’s unintelligible handwriting.”  
  
His grin is big and mirthful and it reduces his eyes to bowed slits. It’s meant to be assuring and, to Sehun’s surprise, it’s kind of working. Just a  _little_. Or maybe  _not_  quite. This is actually a bit creepy.  
  
“I’m Lu Han. We’ve never met before, but you’ve probably heard my name somewhere? Two Moons Entertainment? Ring a bell?”  
  
Sehun considers this for a second. Working for an online news portal has built up his mental index of prominent people, so he probably does have that name catalogued in there somewhere. He takes a second to rack his brain, and then—  
  
_Oh. Lu Han... owner of Two Moons Entertainment? Oh no, am I being scouted again?_  
  
“Correct!” The man—Lu Han—bobs his head then pauses thoughtfully before slowly adding, “And, well, no.”  
  
Sehun blinks.  _What?_  
  
“I meant, you’re correct; I am the owner of TM Ent. I co-own this place with Minseok, too, actually. But don’t worry, I’m not scouting you.” There’s amusement written all over his twinkling eyes.  
  
Sehun stares at him quizzically. He’s sure he did  _not_  say that out loud. In fact, he’s quite certain he hasn’t spoken a single word at all.  
  
“How did you—”  
  
Lu Han actually looks sheepish.  
  
“Your muffin’s getting cold,” he digresses as he awkwardly rubs at his nose, looking kind of nervous and unsure—which is strange, considering how unabashedly he barged into Sehun’s personal space just minutes ago.  
  
Sehun is about to call him out on that badly executed swerve; but then his little plate of chocolate chip muffin is inching closer to the edge of the tray  _all on its own_. He jerks back, and the only semi-coherent thought his brain can come up with is:  _What the fuck—_  
  
Hazy fragments start piecing together in his mind. Something  _clicks_ , and suddenly panic is seizing his chest. He knows what Lu Han is.  
  
_Shit—_  
  
“Screw the muffin,” he’s not quite shouting—or at least he hopes he’s not. Bringing attention to their table is the worst possible idea right now.  
  
“Who are you? What do you want?”  
  
Lu Han raises both hands, palms forward. “Okay, calm down. I’m not a dangerous person.”  
  
That’s a lie. Sehun knows that’s a  _big_  lie. There’s a reason why telepathy, being one of the gravest threats to national security, is classified as a major criminal offense. And the fact that he’s obviously  _also_  telekinetic probably puts him on an entirely different threat-scale.  
  
Sehun knows that it’s probably hypocritical of him to pass judgment, or to turn the man away, considering that he’s a Red Flag Hybrid himself. An  _intractable, unstable, and extremely dangerous agent of natural disaster,_  as a newspaper once put it. Baekhyun actually snorted at that, though, the brat. But for all he knows this could be a trap.  
  
His expression is bordering on hostile as Lu Han readjusts himself in his seat. He’s thinking he must be the one responsible for the fact that Lu Han is a picture of utter exasperation right now, with furrowed brows and lips drawn to a tight line. That is until the man abruptly aims a nasty glare to his right side. Curious, Sehun chances a glance in the same direction and catches Minseok glowering back at the telepath. There’s a fierce staring battle going on—a heated telepathic argument too, most likely—and they keep at it for a while. But it isn’t long before the barista notices him looking. He seems a little taken aback, but collects himself quickly and offers an apologetic smile.  
  
At first Sehun doesn’t know what to make of that. Then he recalls that Minseok and Lu Han are business partners, and he instantly blanches. Could Kim Minseok—kind, friendly Kim Minseok who remembers his uncanny love for chocolate pastries—be in on whatever game Lu Han is playing here? Is he like them, too? How long have they been plotting this ambush? How long have they  _known_?  
  
Sehun is suddenly antsy, lightheaded, choking on a scream trapped in his throat.  
  
“Let me start again,” says the man sitting in front of him, humorless. “Hi. I’m Lu Han,” there’s a ghost of a quiver where his mouth curls up, but his voice remains steady. “I’m a telekinetic-telepath Hybrid.”  
  
Sehun tenses, alarmed—not as much because of the information itself than the fact that it was so easily disclosed.  
  
“I-I don’t think you’re supposed to be saying— _hey!_ ” Sehun’s beanie slips off so fast, as though blown away by the wind. Except that the air is completely still, and the thing was so closely fitted around his head that a simple gust couldn’t have yanked it off.  
  
Sehun almost lurches to his feet, scrambling to give chase, but it’s too late. He looks up forlornly at the beanie hanging on a high branch of a barren gingko tree. He sharply turns back to Lu Han, because it couldn’t possibly be anyone else, and barks,  _“What the hell?”_  
  
The bastard only looks amused.  
  
“Well,” Lu Han shrugs. “Go get it.”  
  
Sehun squawks. “You want me to climb the damn tree?”  
  
Lu Han cocks an eyebrow. “You know that’s not what I mean,” there’s a patronizing lilt to his tone and Sehun wonders how his luck could have turned a full one-eighty so fast.  
  
“Make it fly back,” Lu Han sounds a tad bit too eager. “I know you can.”  
  
Sehun frowns. He feels naked. This isn’t fair.  
  
_Will you please get out of my head??_  
  
Lu Han’s eyes widen at that, like he’s surprised that Sehun even knows to do that, and he smirks.  
  
_Not until you get your hat back. It’s breezy out here, anyway. No one would notice._  
  
Sehun dumps himself back on the chair with a grunt. Brows deeply furrowed, he fixes Lu Han with a hard, uncompromising stare. Just in case the man doesn’t catch the full extent of his irritation telepathically.  
  
“Look,” he hisses, leaning over the table so that he can keep his voice out of anyone else’s earshot. “I don’t know why you’re doing this—but I don’t want any trouble, and I most certainly don’t intend to start my year behind bars.”  
  
If Lu Han finds his whole demeanor impertinent—they only just met after all—he doesn’t make a big deal of it. Doesn’t even bat an eye.  
  
“Don’t worry,” he soothes, eyes wrinkling at the corners. “You’re not gonna get in trouble.”  
  
He’s still calm, still  _smiling_ , and Sehun doesn’t understand how he can so casually dismiss his concerns. Like controlling the wind and reading minds aren’t punishable by law. But then again Lu Han has a little more leeway. No one’s going to walk by and just  _know_  that he’s encroaching on someone else’s thoughts. There’s still a choice, of course, and Sehun can always just leave and never come back. But there’s something compelling him not to. Maybe Lu Han’s pulling some sort of Jedi mind trick on him that’s keeping him rooted in his cha—  
  
_EXCUSE YOU, I AM NOT!!_  
  
Sehun flinches.  _Fuck—_  If his brain’s got a separate pair of ears, they must be deaf by now.  
  
“Fine!” Sehun whisper-yells, flinging both hands in the air. “But if I land in prison for this, I swear to God—”  
  
Lu Han beams. “You won’t. I promise.”  
  
Sehun has no idea why he’s letting a potentially dangerous stranger talk him into this; but there he is, worrying his lower lip as he quickly scans his surroundings to check for unsuspecting spectators and CCTV cameras. And then he’s pulling his shoulders back, fists planted on his lap, eyes and full focus trained on his target. The pendent beanie is already flapping precariously, which tells him that he doesn’t need to use too much energy.  
  
Gently, he blows out through his mouth, just like how he would on a dandelion, and the hat is nudged right off of the branch. As it falls to the ground, he crooks a finger, summoning a soft breeze to push at it a little harder until it’s moving toward his feet. The object rolls across the concrete before eventually parking itself beside Sehun’s shoe. He picks it up, shakes off any dirt it might have gathered in transit, and then snaps it back onto his head.  
  
He’s greeted by a delighted sparkle in Lu Han’s eyes when he glances up. There’s a huge grin trying to split the man’s face in half. He looks absolutely  _fascinated_. Like a kindergartener on his very first trip to the zoo.  
  
If he’s being completely honest, that was actually quite...  _liberating_. He hopes Lu Han didn’t catch that thought, but the knowing glint in the man’s eyes tells him that  _yes_ , he probably did. Sehun clears his throat. Curbing his own amusement, his expression shifts to his default disinterested look as he sinks into the backrest.  
  
“Please tell me I didn’t risk my entire future just to entertain you.” He takes the abandoned coffee in both hands and brings the cardboard cup to his lips. He’s not surprised when the dark mocha doesn’t scald his tongue.  
  
“Can’t, sorry.” Lu Han chuckles, crooked grin impish.  
  
He laughs harder when Sehun bristles, stopping only to mock-solemnly mutter,  _“Hey, hey, let’s not get violent now—I’m older than you, show some respect!”_ as a small tornado spins to life between his feet.  
  
“Really?” Sehun’s control slips—not that it was ever stable to begin with—and the mini-twister promptly thins out.  
  
“I’m  _thirty-two_ , for your information.” Lu Han actually preens a little.  
  
“Huh,” he never would have guessed. Wonders never cease. He plucks out a chocolate chip from the pastry’s dome-shaped top.  
  
“Truthfully, though,” Lu Han says. “It’s great to finally meet a Hybrid of your sort. I’ve never met a wind wielder before.”  
  
“Who isn’t in prison, you mean?” He means to make it sound like a joke but falls short. He doesn’t miss how the bend of Lu Han’s youthful smile falters for the briefest of moments. The man’s face clouds over with something that looks more like  _empathy_  rather than pity. Sehun gets this so rarely that he derives more comfort in it than he probably should.  
  
“But you’re not just an ordinary Hybrid, are you?”  
  
“Hey,” Sehun’s eyes narrow at him in accusation. “You said you’d get out of my head.”  
  
“I did!” Lu Han defensively caws. “It’s just, earlier I sensed...  _something_. Something dormant? I don’t know if it’s some kind of extension of...  _that_ —” he makes vague gestures in the air with his hands, head tilting to one side, perplexed. “Like I said, I’ve never met a wind wielder before.”  
  
Sehun takes a bite out of his now cold muffin, shrugging noncommittally.  
  
“I guess I’ve never met a telekinetic or a telepath before either,” his voice is almost a whisper, careful. “Much less someone who’s  _both_.”  
  
“Or maybe you have—you just didn't know.” Lu Han wags his eyebrows comically, and this time Sehun chuckles softly. He just cannot fathom how that face could possibly be a high-level threat to anything.  
  
Sehun shakes his head. “Maybe.”  
  
He takes another big bite. And then another. And another. The hunger that he somehow forgot in the midst of all the chaos is back with a vengeance. Now it’s even compounded by the loss of energy to wind-control. He stares sadly at the small bit of muffin he has left. Maybe he should have gotten a bagel, too. And perhaps a slice of pie?  
  
“Listen, Sehun,” Lu Han begins and Sehun almost doesn’t catch it over the sound of his own regret.  
  
Lu Han props his elbows on the table as he leans forward. He looks serious and determined and something about it makes Sehun gulp down cold nerves.  
  
“I have a proposition for you.”  
  
  


*

  
  
  
“Wah! Waah!  _WAAAH!!_ ”  
  
Sehun warily eyes a hyperactive Chanyeol, who has a small piece of paper in one hand and a very sharp-looking chef’s knife in the other.  
  
This is danger.  
  
“This is  _great!_ ”  
  
His eyes are huge and wild when he looks up from the paper to Sehun, who’s standing on the other side of the granite countertop in Chanyeol’s kitchen. He’s making Sehun a late dinner because he was so drunk the night before that he forgot to save some buffalo wings for him. He reads the note again, emitting more  _‘waaah’s_  in varying degrees of amazement, all the while absently brandishing the knife in front of his visitor’s face.  
  
Sehun recoils abruptly, nearly tripping over his own legs, when the blade swings dangerously close to the tip of his nose.   
  
“ _Shit_ —put that away, hyung!”   
  
Chanyeol sheepishly mumbles an apology and sets the sharp object down by a batch of julienned carrots.  
  
“But no, really,  _look,_ ” He wipes a hand down his Rilakkuma apron and pushes a thumb in the air, poised to uncurl his fingers one by one as he enumerates all the reasons why  _this is great!_  
  
“We’ll be in the same neighborhood. I can assure you that the place is much bigger than that tiny mouse hole that you live in now.”  
  
Sehun bristles at that. There’s a rebuttal ready at the tip of his tongue, but Chanyeol is quick to shush him with a loud  _“I’m not finished!”_  So he heaves a suffering sigh, folds his arms on his chest, and tells himself to endure for the sake of free dinner.  
  
Chanyeol grins. “Rent is dirt-cheap.  _Apgujeong_  is closer to your head office, not that it matters in your case,  _AND!_ ” his voice climbs several notches, “ _We’ll be in the same neighborhood!_ ”  
  
If Chanyeol’s eyes get any bigger Sehun’s afraid they might pop out of their sockets. He’s buzzing with excitement, flashing all that pearly teeth, and Sehun can’t help but laugh as he snatches the little perforated sheet back. Scribbled on it is an address, a phone number, and a questionable sketch of a deer.   
  
He nearly spat out lukewarm coffee when Lu Han sprang this one on him. Apparently the telepath is landlord to an apartment complex in  _Apgujeong_  and said apartment complex currently has one vacant unit.  
  
“Everyone who lives there is a Hybrid, you see,” he said. “You’ll be safe there. You might even like it.” He told Sehun to think about it, to call him if he ever wanted a tour, and then slipped the note halfway under the tray before leaving him alone. Sehun was surprised when he read the address and realized that he knew exactly where it was.  
  
Chanyeol picks up the knife again and gets to work on the onions as he fills Sehun in. Apparently, a couple of decades ago Lu Han’s Chinese immigrant parents took advantage of the dramatic drop in land value in Seoul. They bought this patch of property in  _Apgujeong_ , which Lu Han later turned into an exclusive residential area. He sold one of the two apartment complexes to Kim Junmyeon after construction wrapped up.  
  
“Hmm,” Sehun croons, thoughtful. He steals three strips of raw carrots and proceeds to nibble on them, which he rightfully gets a smack on the head for.  
  
Chanyeol huffs and points the tip of the knife in his direction.  
  
“Get your filthy paws away from my carrots or you can forget about dinner!”  
  
Sehun chuckles even as he raises a hand in surrender. Chanyeol can probably arm himself with a canyon, aim it right at Sehun, and he still won’t look quite scary enough to him. Chanyeol actually tried to threaten him with tongues of flame shooting up from his palm once and Sehun just asked him if he could hold it long enough to roast his marshmallows.  
  
The chef turns a knob and the burner instantly ignites with blue flame. Gas stoves are normally prohibited in apartments like this, but Junmyeon made an exception for Chanyeol. The steel underside of a shallow pan clanks lightly against the grate.  
  
Sehun watches as Chanyeol puts a large hand into the pan, palms flat over the non-stick ceramic, fingers splayed. He still finds it interesting no matter how many times he’s seen Chanyeol use his bare skin like this when cooking. This is what makes him so good, Sehun thinks. Having power over fire, and therefore heat, gives him leverage in the kitchen. He knows how hot is too hot, what will burn, what will undercook, how long a dish should be exposed to what level of heat to get it  _just right_.  
  
Many years ago, the initial reaction to the existence of Hybrids—individuals born with ‘special abilities’—had been that of fear. However, people soon came to discover that using these abilities sucked human energy dry; could even lead to death in extreme cases. For the most part, this became an assurance that Hybrids would not— _could not_ —cause any real, large scale damage. The fear ebbed considerably but the social stigma ran even more rampant, and remains even now.  
  
It’s incredibly dumb how the restaurants that Chanyeol applied to straight out of culinary arts school rejected him despite his obvious talent just because they were afraid that he would blow up the entire place; like he’s automatically an arsonist by virtue of his aptitude for fire. But now that he owns one of the most raved-about restaurants in  _Gangnam_  and stealing business from those assholes, Sehun reckons it’s not so bad.  
  
“So, this whole apartment-renting,” he straightens his spine, arms extending above his head until he feels a satisfying pop. “Is this a by-invitation-only sort of thing?”  
  
“I guess,” Chanyeol shrugs. “I mean, Lu Han and Junmyeon only take in Hybrids. That’s not something you can put in an ad.”  
  
Sehun hums in agreement. There are still so many questions running through his mind. Why only Hybrids? Why _him_?  
  
“If you’d showed up to any of my parties you would have met Lu Han sooner,” Chanyeol drawls, throwing him a pointed look that pretty much says  _‘listened to me you should have, young Padawan; the wisdom of Yoda I have.’_  
  
“I could have introduced you to my neighbors. I play basketball with Lu Han, Yifan, and Yixing sometimes.”  
  
Sehun snorts. “I bet they kick your ass.”  
  
“Do you want this fucking dinner or not?!”  
  
“I do!” Sniggering, Sehun does little hopping motions in place. He closes his hands then brings both fists up to his cheeks, “Bbuing, bbuing!”  
  
Chanyeol mock-punches him in the face, but he’s cackling so loud that Sehun knows he’s got this in the bag. Perks of being  _maknae_  even though he’s just a couple years shy of thirty now.  
  
When the laughter dies down, he turns and pads to the window across the kitchen, his socked feet scuffing on heated flooring. He sweeps the curtain to the side a little, just enough to let him take a peek at a similar apartment building about two blocks away. The property Lu Han owns is nearly identical to this one, except it has burgundy brick accents while Junmyeon’s has dark blue. He’s never paid attention to it before and yet it doesn’t feel entirely unfamiliar either. So  _maybe..._  
  
“How did you manage to land this place, anyway? Did Kim Junmyeon-sshi ambush you too?” he asks, leaning back to half-sit on the window pane.  
  
“Not exactly,” Chanyeol’s brows draw together as he adds minced garlic in the heated ghee. “His and Lu Han’s methods are different. Junmyeon-hyung was my first regular customer at the restaurant. Lu Han’s a little... _eccentric_.”  
  
Sehun laughs through his nose. “Well, that’s one way of putting it,” he mutters and Chanyeol fondly laughs along.  
  
“Trust me, though, he’s a good person.”  
  
A wooden spatula pushes the rest of the vegetables into the pan and Chanyeol proceeds to sauté them in the heat. He doesn't pause even as he looks up at Sehun with an earnest smile.  
  
“I think you should take the offer, Sehunnie. What have you got to lose?"

 

   
  
---


	2. Chapter 2

**ii.**  
  
Just when everyone thinks that the worst of winter is over, the most unforgiving cold spell, marked by brief surges of hail and snowstorm, ushers in February. It’s like a last hurrah before the vernal equinox rolls in to signal the turning of seasons.   
  
Sehun's lease on the apartment in  _Nakwon-dong_  lapses by the second week. After a shitload of prodding and, loath as he may be to admit,  _sound_  reasoning from Chanyeol, he decides to forego renewing his contract in favor of signing a new one with Lu Han.   
  
He moves in early afternoon on a Thursday, partly because it's the warmest day they've had in two weeks—granted it's still subzero, but minus four is still better than minus fourteen—and partly because Thursday is a _workday_. He has no idea what kind of people his new neighbors are. He knows can't avoid the curious stares and awkward introductions forever, but he can, maybe, stall a little. Or at least he can  _try_.  
  
For a second he considers calling Chanyeol to ask if he can get a ride, but then it's not like he’s got a ton of stuff to move out anyway. Most of his uncle’s belongings had been removed from the apartment, donated, sold, or simply discarded, when it became clear that he won’t get to use them anymore. All he has left now is enough to fit in a backpack, an expandable carry-on duffel bag, and one large hard-shell spinner suitcase. Nothing he can’t lug around on his own.  
  
His new landlord, bundled up in a thick plaid coat, scarf coiled loosely around his neck, is waiting by the entrance to the building when the cab pulls into the parking area. He looks like a little boy next to the giant standing beside him with thick, ominous eyebrows peeking out above black framed Ray-Bans. He’s never seen this guy before.  
  
_Oh no._  
  
Like a knee-jerk reaction, Sehun’s gut falls at the prospect of having to socialize so soon. Which is ridiculous because he knows that they’re all Hybrids out here. He’s got nothing to be afraid of. He repeats this like a mantra in his head as he hands over a T-money card to the cab driver.  
  
Emerging from the white Sedan, he looks up and catches bright doe eyes disappear into crinkled semicircles, giving away the wide grin smothered under layers of wool. And then Sehun chances a gander at the stranger. He can’t see the man’s eyes but his mouth is pulled up to an uneven, tightlipped curve.  
  
Sehun gives a small bow, because it’s the polite thing to do, and then quickly gathers his things before either of the two could make a move to help.  
  
“Yo, yo! You made it,” Lu Han greets loudly, tugging at his scarf to pull the bunched up noose lower so that it doesn’t muffle his voice.  
  
“Yeah,” mumbles Sehun, guarded, as he hitches the duffel bag higher across his clavicle while his other hand clutches the handle of the suitcase. It trundles behind him as he reluctantly steps closer.  
  
“This is Wu Yifan,” Luhan says, tilting up his chin in the other man’s direction. “He lives two doors down from you.”  
  
The name rings a bell. Sehun’s brain clambers for recollection, mouth forming an  _‘o’_  when the search gets a hit.  
  
_The basketball dude..._  
  
Up close he’s even taller. It catches Sehun off guard. He accepts the gigantic hand offered to him nonetheless, and it pretty much engulfs his pasty, bony fingers. The man’s grip is firm, self-assured, and he suddenly feels so small even though he’s only maybe a couple of inches shorter.  
  
“Hey, listen,” Lu Han begins, words rushed. “I’m running really late so Yifan here will have to help you settle in. That okay?”  
  
Sehun tries not to pout, not to panic and whine  _‘nooooooo’_ , because that’s rude as fuck and he’s not a petulant three-year-old being dropped off at daycare against his will.  
  
“Uhh—sure?” He releases the suitcase to fiddle with the straps of his backpack.  
  
“Great!” Lu Han claps him on the shoulder then jogs towards a Bugatti parked just by the side of the low-rise building. It’s not a proper parking space. It’s like he just left it there for easy access, so that he can take off just as soon as he’s sure that Sehun didn’t get lost or anything.  
  
“I’ll see you two tonight! Everyone’s psyched to meet you, Sehunnie. Be ready by 6 P.M.” Lu Han throws them a quick wave before disappearing into the vehicle.  
  
_What?_  
  
“Alright,” a voice pipes up beside him before he can fully digest what Lu Han just said and evaluate the implications of it.  
  
With the glasses on, Yifan’s whole appearance comes off intimidating. And now, sans the glasses, Yifan is... well, _still_  intimidating. Apparently the severe eyebrows come with a set of piercing dark eyes that make him seem like either a tortured artist or head of the mafia.  
  
“Come on, let’s get you inside,” comes a deep, rumbling bass. Perhaps as deep as Chanyeol’s, minus the booming volume and just slightly lacking the same ragged edges, but he can see how they can be friends.  
  
Yifan takes the suitcase and hauls it into the lobby before Sehun can protest.  
  
“I’m going to take the stairs, if you don’t mind,” he says, stopping in front of the fire exit door. “You can take the elevator up to the third floor though, if you want. I’ll just meet you there.”  
  
“That’s okay. I’m fine with the stairs,” Sehun lightly shrugs. “But my luggage is, uh, heavy. Are you sure... third floor is a bit...?”  
  
Yifan waves away his misgivings with a smirk. “Don’t worry about it.”  
  
As Sehun follows suit, he wonders if the man is claustrophobic, hence the semblant aversion towards elevators. Or maybe it’s something he does for health reasons? A cardio exercise of sorts? He doesn’t dare ask for fear of overstepping bounds that he doesn’t even know exist. He really used to be a lot less uptight around new acquaintances, a lot more confident with initiating small talk. He’s just not used to  _people_  in general anymore.  
  
Sehun watches his own shoes the entire time. It takes six flights of stairs to get to the third level. He’s not sure how far they’ve gone, probably just two or three flights, but his poor lungs’ miserable cries make it feel like  _ten_. Heaving as he grips his backpack tighter, he glances up to check how Yifan is faring. He’s ready to help, knowing that his suitcase weighs over twice as much as everything attached to his torso at the moment. But Yifan is perfectly fine.  
  
Normal, steady breathing. Arms and shoulders relaxed. Not a single sign of strain on his neck or back.  
  
And that’s when he notices, with a wide-eyed jolt, that Yifan’s feet and the rubber wheels of his suitcase are moving up, but  _not touching the ground_.  
  
_Holy shit—_  
  
At that moment Sehun’s lucky he doesn’t lose his balance. He vaguely registers someone talking over the fog that temporarily clouds his brain.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
Yifan’s eyes are already on him when he looks up. He’s probably noticed his struggle and takes pity because he suddenly stops moving, effectively making Sehun pause too. And the next thing he knows a significant weight is lifting off of him. He doesn’t even try to put up a fight; just watches Yifan swing the duffel bag onto his own shoulder. And then they’re climbing again. Or  _floating_ , in Yifan’s case.  
  
“—Park Chanyeol? Big, saucer eyes, Yoda-ears, ten thousand teeth?”   
  
“Oh,” Sehun mutters, panting. They finally reach the right floor and he sucks in a lungful of air in celebration.  
  
“Right. Yeah, Chanyeol-hyung. I know him.”  
  
“I’m assuming you’ve been to his place, yeah?”  
  
Sehun nods, following the man as he actually uses his feet to round a corner.  
  
The hallway is wide. Not as long as the one in his old apartment but a hell of a lot more spacious for sure. Soft, warm lighting reflects off of engineered oak hardwood flooring. Walls are a pale, gray-ish, taupe with white cornice and eggshell ceiling. Not at all shabby, Sehun notes. Quite elegant, actually. He can’t say it’s entirely unexpected given that Chanyeol’s building looks about the same, except for the colors and lighting fixture.  
  
And so he isn’t so surprised either when Yifan says: “The apartments here look more or less similar to that.”  
  
They stop in front of a door with brass plates that read  _303_. There are only three units on each floor, and this appears to be the last one here. The cover of the electronic lock slides up, prompting a digital keypad on the touchscreen. Yifan keys in the PIN. The lock beeps, and then he’s pushing the door open.  
  
Stepping inside his new flat feels a lot like stepping into Chanyeol’s, except this one is so much better because it’s _his_. He stands behind the couch, his eyes unblinking as they sweep across his surroundings. He makes a mental note to thank his best friend later for being a pain in the ass and bugging him to sign that lease.  
  
He can hear Yifan puttering behind him, a drawer dragging open, a click of a pen, paper shuffling. Curious, he turns to see what the other man is up to, but then his gaze suddenly lands on the kitchen and he freezes. Eyes blown wide, he completely fails to curb a gasp.  
  
Held up by a long string hanging on the overhead cupboards is a handwritten banner that says:  
  


_**WELCOME!!! \\(^_^)/**  
—from your new neighbors  
(we hope you enjoy your lunch!)_

  
  
And on the granite countertop that borders the kitchen he finds a small, hot bowl of rice,  _kimchi jiggae_ , a plate of buffalo wings, and a box of chocolate chip muffin.  
  
His jaw drops as his insides flap about, tumbling and turning, before promptly melting into a gross, gooey puddle of warm  _feelings_.   
  
“Why—who—” This is the silliest,  _cutest_  welcome he’s ever gotten and he’s not sure what to do with himself.  
  
“The rice is from Lu Han’s trusty rice cooker and the buffalo wings are from Chanyeol.”  
  
Sehun turns to Yifan who is holding a notepad in one hand and a pen in the other.  
  
“He obviously doesn’t live here, but he says he feels responsible for your fate, since he did talk you into buying into Lu Han’s stupid tactics. The  _kimchi jiggae_  is Yixing and Jongdae’s—well, Yixing was the one who made it and Jongdae actually only supplied the recipe, but he’ll zap me if I don’t give him credit for the end product, so. Yeah. And the muffin is from Minseok. The banner is a joint effort between me and Zitao. I bought the materials and he did all the writing. The smiley face is my masterpiece, though.”  
  
This is all gibberish to Sehun’s ears and it must show on his face because now Yifan is laughing behind his huge hand. He steps closer, just enough to give Sehun’s hair a quick ruffle. Like they’re  _close_. Which they’re not, clearly, seeing as they’ve only just met. But strange enough, Sehun doesn’t mind.  
  
“You’ll meet everybody later, don’t worry.” Yifan smiles, all gums and teeth, and all of a sudden he doesn’t seem so scary anymore.   
  
“I noted down the password to your door lock,” he says as he sets the notepad and pen down by the base of the lamp on the end table. “I included resetting instructions just in case you’re not familiar with this one. The Wi-Fi password is there too.”  
  
Sehun is still a bit too dazed to react properly so all he does in response is nod.  
  
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then. I have basketball training to facilitate in about an hour. It’s nice to meet you, Sehun.”  
  
Yifan is already by the door when Sehun regains full function of his faculties. “Yifan... hyung?” He falters, just slightly. “I can—I can call you that, right?”  
  
“Sure,” the man casually shrugs. “I mean, I was born the same year as Lu Han and Minseok, so that does make me _hyung_  to you.”  
  
“Right. Thank you.” Sehun clears his throat. “For the... smiley. And, uh, for helping me with my things.”  
  
Yifan chuckles, looking utterly amused. Sehun should probably be a little offended that the man finds his awkwardness entertaining, but he takes it in stride. His spirit is going to be difficult to dampen today.  
  
“No problem. I’ll see you tonight. 6 P.M., don’t forget.”  
  
The door beeps as it closes and only then does Sehun realize that he forgot to ask Yifan what exactly will happen at 6 P.M.  
  
  
  
Sehun licks every plate clean and finishes doing the dishes before taking a tour around his new apartment.  
  
His old flat could probably fit in the combined space of the living room and the dining. There are two bedrooms but only one has a queen-size bed, which is fine. There’s a desk in the other room and it’s perfect because Sehun did plan to turn it into an office anyway. The bathroom has a tub and a separate shower stall whereas the one in his old flat was so small he could hardly go about taking a bath without stubbing his toe or knee or elbow on the tiles.  
  
Unlike Chanyeol, what he has installed in his kitchen is an induction stove instead of a gas stove. Which is  _also_ fine. He can’t be picky when his activities in the kitchen are more or less limited to boiling water and cooking rice. He makes eggs too, sometimes. And hotdogs. Nothing remotely fancy.  
  
Everything considered, anyone would fully expect the rent to cost a pretty penny. It  _is_  slightly higher than what he used to pay at his old apartment, but for what he’s getting for that amount, this might as well be charity rather than an actual business. Then again, maybe that’s the point. Lu Han probably doesn’t need the money anyway.  
  
Sehun decides he might as well start to unpack. He begins by hooking up his all-in-one PC in the second room and testing the Wi-Fi with it. And then he moves on to sorting clothes, which doesn’t take him very long to do since he doesn’t have too many to begin with.  
  
It’s past three in the afternoon when Sehun slides the eighth and last book into the shelf adjacent to the work table. He brushes off his hands and for a moment he just stands there, going through the spine of each one. He doesn’t remember reading all of them, to be honest. He’s not even sure if they’re all his, but he keeps them just in case.  
  
There’s a particular book, third from the leftmost, that catches his eye. He reaches up, fingers carefully skating along the textured material. It’s a brown leather sleeve, nothing written on the spine. He most definitely doesn’t recall ever reading this one. Curious, he takes it out. He flips to a random page and sees...  _handwriting_. Lots of it. Handwriting that he doesn’t recognize. Until he starts to read.  
  
  
_Sehunnie, my son, I am so sorry that I can’t be with you. That I can’t guide you and hold your hand through everything that you might have to go through. Your life will be challenging. I wish I could make it easier for you but this is as far as I go._  
  
  
Hands trembling, Sehun shuts the book— _diary_ —prompting an explosion of tiny motes of dust. He quickly shoves it back where it came from. Breathing erratically, he scurries out of the office and stomps to the bedroom. The door closes behind him with a loud bang, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. A phantom whisper niggles in his ear telling him to go back and get it, read it from end to end. And maybe he will. But not today.  
  
The suitcase is carefully stowed away in the closet before Sehun heeds the bed’s beckoning call. He collapses stomach-first on the cushion—a hundred times more comfortable than his old one. Sehun sighs, relishing the feeling of feather-soft duvet molding into every curve of his body. This has been his first  _good_  day in a really long time. He doesn’t want to ruin this.  
  
_Not today._  
  
  


*

  
  
  
“Sehunah!”  
  
Incessant buzzing pierces through the sleepy haze.  
  
“Oh Sehun!!”  
  
A groan drags out from under a pillow.  
  
“Oh Sehun, open up!!”  
  
Sehun doesn’t budge. But then his phone goes on a jarring, vibrating spree against his butt cheek and it goddamn _tickles_.  
  
“Ahh! What the hell—” eyes squeezed tight, he flaps about heavily, one hand blindly groping his own ass for the offending piece of metal.  
  
“What?” He doesn’t even bother to check the ID.  
  
“Why are you in bed?”  _Chanyeol-hyung._  Of course. “It’s quarter to six!”  
  
He would resort to flat-out denial but he sees no point when his voice is so thick with sleep he’s slurring his words.  
  
“So?” Sehun rolls on his side, stretching like a cat.  
  
“ _SO_  you have fifteen minutes to get ready. Open the door.”  
  
“..... _why?_ ”  
  
“Just! Open! The door!”  
  
The second Sehun does open the door, he’s immediately flipped over a shoulder like a sack of rice and manhandled into the bathroom.  
  
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HYUNG PUT ME DOWN!!”  
  
“You were  _specifically_  told 6 P.M., you unpunctual noodle!! I  _knew_  this was gonna happen!”  
  
In his defense, he fell asleep by accident because how could you  _not_  with a bed like  _that_? It’s totally the bed’s fault.  
  
Chanyeol throws him a menacing,  _“If you’re not done in five minutes, I swear, I’m dragging you out butt naked, kicking and screaming, so help me,”_  and then shuts the door in his face. Sehun jumps back on reflex, taking his nose to safety in the nick of time. He stares incredulously at the closed door, jaw hanging open.  
  
“Asshole! You almost broke my nose!”  
  
“Kid, I’ll break it for real if I don’t hear the shower running in the next ten seconds!” Chanyeol bellows from far away, tone sharp, ripe with foreboding.   
  
Sehun slumps into himself, sniffling indignantly.  _“Rude.”_  
  
He’s still sulking, but he knows better than to test Chanyeol’s patience. He can only take being deprived of his best friend’s glorious food for so long. What if he goes to eat at Chanyeol’s restaurant and Chanyeol actually makes him  _pay_?   
  
Sighing loudly, like a waspish ten-year-old who got a chiding from his big brother, Sehun resignedly turns around and stomps toward the shower stall.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Lu Han’s penthouse is  _massive_.  
  
Sehun hears the lot before he sees it, before the door even opens, and he balks. He might have bolted if not for Chanyeol standing directly behind him, bodily obstructing his escape route. When Lu Han waves them in, Chanyeol is the one who announces their entrance with a big, hearty,  _“HEHEYYY!!”_  
  
Lu Han then takes his shoulder in a steady grip, as if to make sure that he doesn’t run, and says, “Everyone, meet Oh Sehun!”  
  
_Oh, God,_  Sehun sobs inwardly, fidgeting under the attention even while he bends at the waist to give a courteous bow.  
  
He gulps, his shoulders stiff, gaze aimlessly roving about like a lost child. More heads turn and a couple of people get up from their seats. He all but cowers like a prey. What makes matters worse is that Chanyeol leaves him the moment he spots Baekhyun and Minseok in the middle of a fierce air hockey battle. He’s stumped for a second because as far as he knows, Baekhyun’s not from this neighborhood. On second thought, he might as well be given that Chanyeol’s bachelor pad is practically his second home with how often he comes to raid the man’s kitchen and abuse his comfy sofa.  
  
Sehun makes a small, frustrated noise in the back of his throat as he helplessly watches the tall man prance away.  
  
_Fucking traitor!_  
  
“Hey,” a gentle voice pipes up behind him. Sehun turns to find jet black hair, kind, russet eyes, and a dented cheek.  
  
“I’m Yixing,” he says, smiling wider. “I’m a healer. And a biochemist. It’s nice to meet you, Sehun!”  
  
Sehun blinks.  _A healer_. And the fact just slides off his tongue like it’s nothing.  
  
His mind flashes back to a news article he read about a month ago on a string of abductions that involved extremely rare Hybrids like Yixing. The formula to foolproof healing and extended youth remains elusive, and the search for it has put healers in danger for the longest time; even forced some of the known ones into hiding. Well, going by how Yixing so easily exposed himself, he’s obviously  _not_  hiding. Then again, if he’s friends with Lu Han, which he obviously is, then that would explain a lot.  
  
Sehun remains stationary long enough that Yixing’s smile begins to falter, head tilting slightly in concern. Sehun splutters.  
  
“O-oh, yeah,  _kimchi jiggae_ —I mean, hi. Yixing-hyung. I mean, Yixing-sshi. Hyung. I’m Oh Sehun—but you already know that. Um. Hello. It’s nice to meet you, too.” He barely manages to get the last part out in a semi-whisper.  
  
Yixing laughs through his nose, clearly very amused, and Sehun flushes in embarrassment even while he gives the extended hand a weak shake. Luckily Yixing is magnanimous enough to not capitalize on Sehun’s lameness.  
  
“Did you like the  _kimchi jiggae_?” He asks amiably. Sehun doesn’t quite trust himself to speak yet so he opts to just nod in response. Yixing’s face lights up in an instant.  
  
“Thanks to my recipe, right?” chimes in a man with a wide, kittenish grin curling at the corners, as he loosely flings an arm across Yixing’s shoulders.  
  
Sehun’s eyes widen. He knows this guy. Kim Jongdae, Up Rising’s front man. He’s seen the indie band featured on some online articles and even likes ( _loves_ , to be completely honest) their music. Though to call himself a  _fanboy_ would be a bit if a stretch, not to mention bruising to his manly ego. Oh Sehun is nobody’s  _fanboy_. Maybe except Up Rising’s and Justin Bieber’s, but he’s taking that bit of information to the grave.  
  
“You’re welcome, by the way,” chirps the singer, reaching up with a gloved hand to pat Sehun’s head.  
  
“Oh, shut the fuck up, Kim Jongdae, you  _Googled_  that recipe!” Baekhyun snaps from where the Chanyeol vs. Yifan Air Hockey War is being waged. He stands by the wall, a notepad in one hand and a pen in the other. It looks like he’s the one keeping score.  
  
Denying Jongdae a chance to retaliate, Baekhyun turns to Sehun and breaks into a big smile, arms flailing. “Hi, Sehunah!”  
  
“SCORE!!!” Chanyeol lets out a cry of triumph and tugs at Baekhyun frantically before Sehun could say hi back.  
  
“Ten points! I win! Baek, did you see?!”  
  
“No, I was saying hello to Sehunnie. And if I don’t see it, it doesn’t count,” he deadpans.  
  
Chanyeol’s eyes nearly pop out, voice soaring multiple octaves. “But the puck is right here—“ He pointedly waves the mullet toward the slot over his side of the table, but Baekhyun is unimpressed.  
  
“How do I know you didn’t put it there while I wasn’t looking?”  
  
“But—but— _you_ —Yifan-hyung,  _tell him!_ ”  
  
Chanyeol is absolutely desperate while Yifan just looks like he’s fighting down a grin. He gives a nonchalant shrug.  
  
“Hey, if the referee says it doesn’t count...”  
  
Sehun chuckles to himself as Chanyeol points an accusing finger at them both, yelling,  _“You are terrible people! Why are you my friends?!”_  
  
“Look, it smiles,” someone coos beside him. Then suddenly a gloved finger pokes his cheek and he jumps a mile high. The man with a kittenish grin laughs while Sehun ducks his head, ears flaming.  
  
“Relax, kiddo.”  
  
Sehun tries not to flinch when a light, playful punch lands on his chest.  
  
“I’m Jongdae. You make a cuter  _maknae_  than Tao. I like you already.”  
  
“I heard that!” A tall blond with kohl-lined eyes and a haughty jut of his chin shouts from the buffet table, which prompts a bark of laughter from both Jongdae and Yixing.  
  
Sehun already knows Zitao, who thanks him for getting the  _'annoying burden of maknae-hood'_  off his back. And then Minseok comes up to him right then to introduce him to Do Kyungsoo, the pastry maker and basically the one who deserves his unending worship for producing the best chocolate chip muffin to ever grace his palate.  
  
The rest, he’s already met before and this slightly eases up the tension coiling in his stomach. In the spirit of full disclosure, one by one people start telling Sehun what kind of Hybrid they are over dinner. Kyungsoo, the one with elemental aptitude for earth; Junmyeon, water; Minseok, frost. Even so, nobody pressures him into divulging anything about himself. A fact that he appreciates, although he doubts that Lu Han hasn’t told them already. He figures that perhaps they’re doing this in a bid to get him to stop nervously fiddling with his wool sweater, for one. He can't help it. A part of him keeps expecting something horrible to happen because it seems like there's always, _always_  a surprise waiting at every turn. Most of the time, a bad one. Especially just when he's starting to have a good time.  
  
It still feels a little odd, though. He's never been around this many Hybrids before, and never another Red Flag until he met Lu Han. And now he knows another one—Zitao, who’s apparently a chronokinetic. Sehun's not sure what kind of expression his face is making exactly, but he must seem pretty amazed judging by the way Tao is preening. He looks like he's about to go and milk it some more when Baekhyun interrupts with a snort.  
  
"Don't look so smug now, my dear panda. It's not like you can go longer than three seconds without your nose bleeding."  
  
It's apparently true because Tao doesn’t refute it. He just squawks indignantly and throws a badly aimed kick at Baekhyun’s leg in response, which the older manages to dodge at the last possible moment. They bicker back and forth like that throughout the meal. Kyungsoo somehow gets roped in, but Baekhyun is quick to backpedal the second the other man pins him with a very dark look that promises pain and suffering in the form of a crippling headlock, or a mean uppercut, or both. Meanwhile, Junmyeon goes from being a responsible adult who promotes peace and harmony by breaking up the kids’ fight, to a tired, old man who looks just about ready to give up on mankind.  
  
In the middle of it all, Sehun finds himself laughing along. It’s strange, but not bad. Not bad at all.  
  
  
  
Hours later, Lu Han announces that he’s going to allow just one choice of liquor, because a room full of piss drunk Hybrids spells the perfect disaster. Minseok brings out a bucket of beer bottles, the tin frosted around the area wrapped in his hands. General consensus states that beer is still best served cold no matter the season, and who needs ice when Minseok is around?  
  
Luhan begins to move the fire pit from indoors to the veranda without lifting a finger. Chanyeol starts up the flames while Baekhyun conjures tiny glowing balls of light that flit around like fireflies from the palm of his hand. Nobody bats an eye. Sehun watches this all with bated breath, half-expecting the wailing sirens any minute now because surely there must be a law against having this many active Hybrids in one place. But maybe he's just paranoid.   
  
_Yeah, maybe._  
  
  
  
Everyone steps out, except for Sehun who lingers by the glass doors a little longer.  
  
Hands snug in pockets, he leans his weight against the silver frame while quietly watching as the older guys try to set up the makeshift bonfire. It’s taking a while. They hardly get anything done in between playfully shoving and chasing each other around like children. Peals of laughter ring loud into the night as Tao and Chanyeol start trying to catch the ‘fireflies’ with their hands. The sky is a flat blackness with nothing to illuminate it tonight, but Baekhyun’s balls of light make it seem like the stars just made a trip down to earth, on Lu Han’s penthouse’s veranda, to play tag with these silly grown men.  
  
Something searing suddenly creeps into Sehun’s chest, and the small smile falls away even before he realizes that it’s there. It lashes like a whip and takes his heart in a chokehold of fear. He's part of  _this_  now and it feels like it can only go either one of two ways: he ends up destroying something here or something else brings all of them down.  
  
“Hey,” someone elbows him on the side and he  _jolts_.  
  
“God, Sehun, you really need to relax,” Yifan says with a light laugh.  
  
“Sorry,” he mumbles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t really...  _this_ —” he makes broad gestures with his hand to encompass all aspects of this little—or not-so-little; there’s eleven of them after all—party. “I’m not used to it anymore. I don’t make new friends.”  
  
He hesitates along that last bit, worried for a second that he might have inadvertently painted himself as a flaky misanthrope. Which, to be honest, is probably true when he’s around most people. But maybe not here. Maybe this is different. That’s not how he  _wants_  to be here.  
  
“Hm,” Yifan hums. “It looks like Jongdae liked you right away, though. I’d take that as a good sign.”  
  
Sehun peers at him curiously. The taller man steps away a bit, allowing his weight to fall against the opposite side of the door frame.  
  
“It doesn’t seem like it anymore, but when he first came here he was just as skittish as you are right now. Wouldn’t talk. Just shrinks into himself. Wouldn’t let anybody near him. Wouldn’t touch anybody.”  
  
“Really...” Sehun is honestly surprised. From what he’s seen over the last few hours, he could easily peg the man for an affectionate lump of unending energy, who’s also slightly clingy, but not in a bad way.  
  
Glancing outside, he easily spots Jongdae. He has one arm curled around Yixing’s waist, head thrown back mid-laugh, possibly over something the healer said. Nothing about what he’s seeing fits Yifan’s description. Sehun’s brain goes back to dinner and that’s when it dawns on him that Jongdae hasn’t actually mentioned what kind of Hybrid he is.  
  
“What does he...” he trails off, unsure if he’s allowed to know at all when Jongdae didn’t even volunteer the information himself.  
  
“He can summon lightning,” Yifan says it, anyway. “He has high-voltage sparks shooting out from his fingertips and sometimes he can’t control it. He can electrocute someone without meaning to just by touching them.”  
  
Sehun blinks.  
  
_Oh._  
  
He’s seen Jongdae on posters and online photos and such, and before tonight he thought that the gloves were sort of a branding mechanism. A trademark-look thing. Something to the effect of those rhinestone-studded ones that Michael Jackson is known for, perhaps to pay homage to the King of Pop, except that Jongdae doesn’t really dance, as far as he knows.  
  
“See, you learn control through practice. But you need someone else there to reel you back in when you’re starting to spin out of control. A coach of sorts. We couldn’t be that for Jongdae. Something like what he has... it’s too dangerous even for us,” he says, and Sehun senses a wave of regret rolling off of him.  
  
“Well, maybe except for Yixing but only because he heals fast. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t get hurt—just that he doesn’t sustain any serious injuries from it easily. Jongdae always hated it, but he does need the help. Yixing wouldn’t take no for an answer anyway.” He pauses, takes a long breath. “Personally, I think Jongdae’s doing so well that he doesn’t need the gloves anymore. But I guess he’s just, I don’t know, too  _scared_  of hurting someone accidentally.”  
  
Sehun swallows thickly. Having an ability that could potentially hurt, even kill, people is something he understands more than he can explain.  
  
He quietly watches as flames lick around the lava rocks. Minseok, Junmyeon, and Lu Han begin rearranging chairs around the fire pit, the rest following suit. Kyungsoo advances on a cowering Chanyeol for flinging the smaller man’s hoodie over his head. A laughing Baekhyun pulls Tao up from where he tripped over his own feet and then helps him brush down the back of his thick parka. Because beneath all of that brattiness and sass, truth is he’s actually a pretty good hyung.  
  
Every single one of them appears unremarkable, basic,  _normal_ —and yet, essentially, they can all be human weapons one way or another. If they train— _really_  train—for maybe forty or fifty years, gain complete mastery of their abilities, and grow strong enough to no longer be hindered by the limitations set by the human body, Sehun and Junmyeon together can obliterate every single piece of land from the face of the earth. Lu Han can get access to all government and military intel and bring down governments, even start a war. Jongdae can trigger a worldwide blackout. Kyungsoo can activate all volcanoes, split the earth in half. And that’s not all of them yet.  
  
Sure, it’s a stretch, but they’re a fucking  _dangerous_  lot, and every single one of them is a target. Having all of them in one place like this makes them a little too vulnerable, doesn’t it? Practically like hitting eleven birds with one stone. It’s just a matter of which side destroys the other first.  
  
Sehun exhales loudly, suddenly frustrated for no real, tangible reason.  
  
“I know I signed up for this, but this is  _nuts!_ ” He turns to Yifan who looks surprised at the outburst. He feels metal digging into his sweater when he leans back on the door frame. “I don’t get it—why would anybody want all of us together under one roof? We’re like a time bomb.”  
  
Yifan’s lips press together as a thoughtful look settles in his eyes. “I think,” he begins slowly, like he understands that the question deserves a carefully considered answer.  
  
“I think Lu Han’s trying to gather help just as much as he’s trying to give it. You won’t find government cameras here. No other neighbors; just us. This is somewhere we can call our turf, where it’s safe to practice. Safe to just _be_ , you know?”  
  
Sehun looks down at his socked feet. His toes would be frozen by now if not for Lu Han’s heated flooring. He can’t really say that he  _does_  know because until today, this was something he didn’t think he was missing. Something he could want. He never entertained the thought of  _‘practicing’_  his ability, of getting better control of it. He thought isolation from people was the only solution.  
  
But he has to admit that  _this_  doesn’t seem so bad either.  
  
“Yifan-hyung, can I ask you something?”  
  
“Go ahead.”  
  
The younger chews on his lower lip, hesitating for just a moment, but he’s feeling a little brave now so he goes for it.  
  
“Why is it that you’re tagged? I noticed that Lu Han, Yixing, and Tao are not. You’re an immigrant just like them, aren’t you?”  
  
Yifan stops short, expression turning a tad cold as he looks away. Sehun panics—  
  
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t tagged when we immigrated, not until high school,” Yifan answers calmly before Sehun can take the question back and voice the string of apologies at the tip of his tongue.  
  
“I was on the basketball team. My mom wasn’t really for it because it was so easy to get caught, but basketball was all I ever wanted to do ever since I first learned how to dribble a ball. Then my senior year, I was open for a jumper. I took it and... forgot that I had to come back down, I guess,” he laughs lightly, ruefully.  
  
“So I was tagged with the ability of flight and went from being MVP three years in a row to becoming ineligible for any league  _anywhere_. I  _begged_ , I don’t even know how many times, but the bottom line was that they believed having me on any team would be unfair advantage. Going pro was immediately out of the question. Coaching was the next best thing so I grabbed it. It’s the closest I could get.”  
  
Sehun’s mouth falls open, as though he’s about to say something, but ends up just worrying his lower lip again. There’s really nothing he can say to that. Unlike Red Flag Hybrids like Lu Han and himself, even ‘regular’ Hybrids of Chanyeol’s sort, Yifan’s ability is relatively  _harmless_ , and yet...  
  
Yifan sucks in a breath then blows it all out in a foggy puff of air. His shoulders go slack, all tension sliding right off, while his hands slip into his coat.  
  
“We’re dealt a bad hand,” he scrunches his nose in mock disgust and Sehun can't help but chuckle at the ugly face he’s making. “There’s really no need to make it worse." He shrugs, lighthearted.  
  
Sehun finds no bitterness there, no sadness or anger over being forced to settle for something other than his childhood dream. Not a sign that he doesn't love what he does right now. Maybe this is what acceptance looks like. He's seen the same look on his uncle whenever Sehun came to visit him, even up until the very last moment. Maybe one day he'll look in the mirror and find it there, too.  
  
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Yifan sniffles. “Chanyeol and Baekhyun talk about you sometimes—or  _a lot_ , actually—and honestly it sounded like you’d be as big of a brat as they are.”  
  
The flippant look in Yifan’s eyes tells Sehun that he’s just teasing. Normally he’d gurgle or shrink away or just laugh shyly, because that’s how he is with people he doesn’t trust. Instead, he smirks.  
  
“Me? Of course not.” The playful look in his eyes belies the innocence in his tone. Yifan chortles and throws a light punch on his arm.  
  
“Sehunah!”  
  
They both turn to Chanyeol, perched on a stool by the fire pit. “It’s freezing, help us out here!”   
  
Sehun boldly archs an eyebrow and pointedly drones, “I’m not the one who makes  _fire_ , hyung”  
  
“I know that, smartass, but we need a  _heater_!” The man starts making big, vague gestures with both arms, splaying them in the air as he wriggles his eyebrows comically. Sehun gets it.  
  
_Why not just stay indoors then?_  He wants to retort, but doesn’t. He knows what Chanyeol is asking him to do and the hopeful,  _encouraging_  expression on his face is making Sehun’s stomach reflexively twist in panic. Once again, he knows his friend wouldn’t be surprised to hear a ‘no’, but...  
  
Sehun slips on his boots and finally goes to join the group. With eyes narrowing in warning, he comes up to Chanyeol who is visibly shocked, yet thrilled.  
  
“If we accidentally burn this building down to the ground, I will not be held liable,” he mutters through his teeth, to which Chanyeol replies with a roll of his big eyes.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say,” drawls the man, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips and excitement in his eyes. It quickly breaks, though, as Chanyeol turns serious, leaning forward to peer closely at Sehun’s face.  
  
“Are you sure, though? You don’t really have to—”  
  
Sehun takes a deep breath, rubbing his shaking hands together because it  _is_  fucking freezing, and he is so fucking _tense_. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this. Maybe because everyone’s been open and honest, and he feels like he ought to return the favor. Maybe because he knows he’s safe here, that he’s not alone after all.  
  
Sehun swallows thickly, heart hammering in his chest as he turns to face the fire pit.  
  
And then firmly he says, “Fire it up, hyung.”  
  
A beat passes. A deep, rumbling chuckle, then Chanyeol’s holding up a palm to the flames. They immediately leap up higher. With a very careful flick of Sehun’s wrist the wind whistles in, bending the flame until it splits. The lower half calms and resumes dancing around the lava rocks as the other half thins out and fades, leaving behind only transparent heat.  
  
The group erupts with  _‘oooohh...’s_ as the hot air diffuses, creating a mirage whichever direction it sways. Slowly, a blanket of comfortable warmth begins to settle around the fire pit. It's not too hot that they need to peel off a layer, but just enough to keep frostbite at bay.  
  
“That’s what I'm talking about!” Baekhyun cheers, tipping his bottle of beer in Sehun’s direction. “Thanks, _maknae_!”  
  
“Hey, what about me??” Chanyeol whines, pouting dejectedly.  
  
A heavy pat on Sehun’s shoulder snatches his attention from Baekhyun’s snappy response. His heart is still pounding, whole body slightly shaking from both emotional tension and physical effort, when he turns to find Lu Han standing beside him, smiling like a proud father, oddly enough.  
  
“Welcome to the circus, Sehun,” he says quietly and Sehun can only smile back.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
In a span of a month, Sehun goes from having a social circle that consists only of Chanyeol and Baekhyun, to readjusting the amount of time he allots for work on a daily basis because his days don't simply bleed into each other in a monotonous cycle anymore.  
  
Tao’s always dragging him out to Minseok’s café just before it closes for a free late night snack, which the barista grumbles about but never denies them. Lu Han also constantly swings by unannounced just to bug the crap out of him. At the end of the day, he gets a good laugh out of it so he doesn't complain—or he doesn’t really  _mean_  it when he does.  
  
Meanwhile, Yifan makes him play basketball with him on Wednesdays or whenever he feels like it, really, and Sehun agrees even though he sucks at it because Yifan’s eyebrows are scary. Jongdae shows up at his door randomly sometimes to make him listen to new music that he’s working on. Sehun secretly looks forward to this, being a  _non-fanboy_  and all. His favorite, though, is Yixing, the hyung who especially dotes on him and calls him over every other day to have a taste of whatever he’s making in the kitchen.  
  
In this same time frame, Sehun comes to learn a few things about his new neighbors.  
  
_One:_ That there really is no such thing as  _free lunch_  and that Lu Han’s inexpensive rent actually comes with a price: being commissioned to moonlight as kitchen staff at the café during hectic days, except  _without_  pay. Sehun almost drops his sandwich when Tao casually mentions this arrangement one day.  
  
“You’re joking.”  
  
Tao takes a long sip of his latte. He shakes his head gloomily. “I wish I was. You mean Lu Han-ge didn’t brief you on this at all?”  
  
Color drains from Sehun’s face. A slew of objections begin to race in his mind and yet all that leaves his mouth is a sad, strangled noise that resembles that of a dying animal.  
  
“Aw, come on—think of it as helping out a couple of friends!” Lu Han chirps, blatantly laughing in the face of Sehun’s impending meltdown. Minseok finishes locking up the shop front and goes to slide into the seat next to him.  
  
“Don’t be mean,” intones the barista, mildly chastising.   
  
Sehun blinks up at the newcomer with imploring eyes, genuinely grateful for the sympathy. Unlike Lu Han, at least Minseok has a  _heart_.  
  
“Minseok-hyung, I don’t really have to do it, right?”  
  
The barista grins.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can do closing,” he says. Tao and Lu Han immediately bray with laughter while Sehun glares.  
  
This all turns out to be a mean, elaborate prank and they tell him so just when he’s practically on the verge of tears. Sehun wants to stab them all with his fork.  
  
Since then, Lu Han has taken to taunting Sehun, telling him that he should start practicing how to balance a tray in each hand because  _“we might require your services soon—you never know.”_  Meanwhile, Sehun wonders how bad it would be if he smacked those trays on Lu Han’s face instead.  
  
The takeaway here, really, is that his neighbors are a bunch of trolls.  
  
  
_Two:_  That despite Lu Han’s incessant goading, Jongdae and his band are perfectly fine staying independent. He actually favors being a vocal coach at Two Moons Entertainment over being a talent there himself. He has regular gigs with his band at a club in  _Hongdae_  called  _The Lost Planet_  where Up Rising plays twice every week. As tradition, the whole gang faithfully tries to be present for at least one of those two shows.  
  
“Except for Yixing-hyung. He  _always_  goes to both gigs,” teases Chanyeol, complete with greasy eyebrow-wagging. The healer only ducks his head, hiding a shy smile behind a cup of tea, while Jongdae goes the more violent route and jumps out to strangle the gangly flame wielder’s long neck.  
  
So far, they haven’t managed to convince Sehun to tag along to these gigs. Places like  _Hongdae_  and  _Myeongdong_ with narrow alleyways, a plethora of enormous signage, and  _way_  too many people are places he’d much rather avoid.  
  
Surprisingly enough, Lu Han makes it a point to invite him, but never pushes it when he declines. Just looks at him with a strange understanding and says, “You know you’re gonna get past this one day, right?” He never quite knows what to answer to that but it doesn’t matter because Lu Han doesn’t look like he expects one.  
  
  
_Three:_  That the bizarre,  _ice-cold-chill-running-down-the-spine_  thing is cue that Lu Han is impinging on one’s thoughts. Apparently, there’s a way to do it without the telling signals, but that method drains far too much energy to be safe. It’s almost impossible to sustain without passing out for days or, in worst case scenarios, falling into a coma.  
  
It’s Yifan who lets the cat out of the bag and he gets a swat on the back of the head for it.   
  
“ _Ow!_  Hey, that hurts!”  
  
Lu Han huffs with not a morsel of remorse as he grits, “He doesn’t get to know that until  _five_  more months!”  
  
The telepath sulks like a kid robbed of treats while Sehun sniggers with thinly veiled delight. Now he knows how to catch Lu Han red-handed.  
  
  
_Four:_ That Baekhyun and Chanyeol’s genuine fear of getting locked in Kyungsoo’s chokehold is completely and utterly justified.  _This_  Sehun learns the hard way. He’s never dipping a finger in Kyungsoo’s bowl of raw brownies again.  
  
  
_Five:_  That Yixing and Jongdae are actually a married couple and everyone knows this except for  _them_.  
  
And so when a slip of the tongue unwittingly betrays the fact that Jongdae is planning to move into Yixing’s apartment, along with all the underlying implications of this development, no one is particularly surprised.  
  
“Fucking  _finally_! It only took you five hundred years, guys.” Baekhyun drones theatrically, for which he gets a pillow thrown at his face by a flustered Jongdae.  
  
Sehun joins in on the hoots and whistles as Yixing laughs and brazenly pulls Jongdae against him. The singer is fiercely blushing now but doesn’t put up a fight when Yixing presses their lips together. When Jongdae’s hand comes up to cup the healer’s face, Sehun notices that he’s not wearing his gloves anymore.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
“Okay, listen carefully, Sehunah.”  
  
Minseok pushes Sehun onto a stool in the back of the shop. Bone-tired from spending most of the day working out a stubborn bug, he flops right down on the hard seat without protest.  
  
He was called—or  _dragged_ , more like—to the café because Minho, the barista who’s on the last shift, apparently can’t stay until closing. Something about his fiancée ending the engagement if he isn’t home for dinner with her family—Sehun doesn’t eavesdrop beyond that. It’s also an Up Rising gig night, which means Sehun’s the only one who has nowhere to be tonight.  
  
Now it’s ten minutes until the café closes, thirty minutes to the start of Up Rising’s set at The Lost Planet, and Minseok and Lu Han are about to leave Sehun to close up shop alone. Not the most ideal situation but he figures it could be worse.  
  
A bunch of silver keys threaded in a Bambi keychain dangles in front of his face. Minseok picks them out one by one as he introduces each, for the  _third time_.   
  
“Pay attention,” Sehun automatically straightens his back at the command. “Security gate. Front door lock. Front door double lock. Back door. Back door double lock. Got it?”  
  
“Got it.” It’s not like the keys aren’t  _labelled_  in color-coded stickers anyway.   
  
“Great.” Minseok lets the keys drop on Sehun’s hand. “If anyone comes in, just say  _‘sorry, we’re closed’_. Turn them away  _nicely_.”  
  
“Okay, sure.”  
  
“Don’t you just run and hide, okay!” The barista fixes him with a pointed look and Sehun gapes at him, almost offended.  _Of course_ , he knows that.  
  
He would roll his eyes in annoyance, but this is  _Minseok_. Cute, kind, kitty-eyed Minseok-hyung who pretends not to see when Sehun sneaks out a pastry or two from the pantry.   
  
He draws a long-suffering sigh and mutters through his teeth, “Fine.”  
  
The older pauses like he’s taking a second to tick boxes in his mental checklist until Lu Han calls out from the back door, reminding him of the time and the awful traffic at this hour. Sehun shuffles after the barista to see him and Lu Han out.  
  
“Thanks for doing this, honestly. There’s a plate of muffins for you on the counter,” says Minseok as he steps over the threshold. Sehun easily perks up at the mention of food. “Don’t stay here too late.”  
  
“Yes,  _dad_ ,” drawls the  _maknae_ , which merits him a light punch in the stomach from a grinning, mock-indignant Minseok.  
  
  
To Minho’s credit, Sehun can see that he managed to finish busing the tables before rushing out.  
  
Taking a gander at the countertop, true enough, Sehun spots a plate of chocolate chip and blueberry muffins and a sliced panini there, along with a bottle of banana milk. Deciding that it’s better to get the chores out of the way, Sehun secures every lock and bolt first to keep any potential last-minute customers out. Then he goes on to flip the chairs onto tabletops so that he can mop down the floor.  
  
He’s down to the last few swipes when he comes to an abrupt stop. His head suddenly feels too heavy. He has to squeeze his eyes shut against all the spinning while clammy hands come up to grip the edge of the nearest table to keep himself from tipping over. Shivers rake through his entire body. The worst lasts only about a second, but the aftershock lingers a while longer.  
  
“ _Geez,_ ” Sehun grunts, the heel of his hand digging in his temple. He knows  _exactly_  what just happened.  
  
_Damn it, Luhan-hyung!_  He slinks into a booth seat, though he can’t quite tell if it was voluntary or if his knees simply gave out.  
  
Lu Han probably senses his current state because he seems genuinely contrite.  
  
_I didn’t think I had to be so careful anymore! I’m sorry, Sehunnie... you—are you okay?_  
  
It’s weird that Sehun can actually catch a little of what the telepath is feeling—alarm, concern, regret—like he didn’t bother to get his guard all the way up at all. He has to admit that it’s rather heartwarming to think that Lu Han trusts him enough for that now. Then again it could also be just some sort of energy-saving strategy...  
  
_I’m fine. But can you please not do that again? Like, ever?  
  
I promise I’ll be more careful next time. There’s something I forgot to tell you—  
  
NEXT TIME, how about we use the_  phone _??_  
  
Lu Han snorts, and something about how strongly it came through telepathically suggests that he might have done it for real.  
  
_Where’s the fun in that, though? Anyway, I was supposed to meet someone there earlier this afternoon, but he’s running really late. He’s on his way now—don’t panic! He’s also a Hybrid. He’s gonna be staying at Jongdae’s old apartment._  
  
_Oh._  The spike of dread in Sehun’s stomach quietens somewhat.  _I see you've managed to recruit another one; how Charles Xavier of you.  
  
Oh! Oh! I wholly take that as a compliment!  
  
You would—_  
  
Sehun finds the wave of giddiness that thrums along the telepathic link amusing, but not surprising. It’s an automatic reaction that Lu Han has toward anything Marvel-related, really.  
  
_Or maybe Erik Lehnsherr fits you better..._  
  
A telepathic gasp.  
  
_How dare you._  
  
Sehun chuckles aloud.  
  
_Wait, who’s moving in? Who are we talking about?_  
  
That’s the first time Sehun hears the name  _Kim Jongin_ —the dance teacher and freelance choreographer whom Lu Han works with a lot, apparently.  
  
_I think you’re about the same age,_  is the last thing Sehun catches before Lu Han’s voice slips away. He reels a bit, head feeling a little lighter all of a sudden.  
  
  
  
It’s almost midnight by the time every nook and surface is all clean and sparkly. He puts away the mop then switches some of the lights off, leaving just enough to prevent him from crashing into random things. He takes his food to a booth near the front so that he’ll hear if anyone calls out, or knocks, or gives the security gate a shake or something.  
  
Sehun practically  _inhales_  the panini. After a short deliberation, he picks up the blueberry muffin instead of the chocolate chip one. Save the best for last. He’s taking the last bite when something starts to feel awfully strange around him. He pauses, brows scrunching together. There’s a quick, faint shift in the air—and then a flurry of black smoke suddenly springs from the same floor he just mopped.  
  
Sehun lets out a very high-pitched,  _very_  embarrassing screech. He skids back on his ass until he hits the wall, flinging a hand in the air on pure instinct. A big lump of  _something_  wrapped in the dark smoke shrieks right back when a blast of strong wind sends it flying across the floor. It hits the side of the counter with a loud thud along with a small brown paper bag.  
  
“Oww...” it sobs pathetically. By now the smoke has dissipated and Sehun gapes in horror when he sees that  _it_  is actually a  _person_.  
  
Sehun holds his breath.  
  
_A teleporter?_  
  
“I think I cracked my skull...”  
  
Sehun crawls out of the booth, quiet as a mouse. He takes slow, careful steps, all the while trying to peer at the stranger’s face. But the lighting’s bad, and he’s hunched in a funny angle, clutching his head with both hands, long legs sprawled on the floor.  
  
“A-Are you Kim Jongin?”  
  
The teleporter gingerly lifts his head. But even then the bill of his black cap casts a shadow over his eyes, hiding it from Sehun’s view. He notes the shapely mouth, though—full and slightly agape as he breathes heavily through it. Sehun’s stomach feels  _weird_  all of a sudden.  
  
“You’re the wind wielder?” he asks back softly, gravel-voiced and calm. Like he hadn’t just carelessly materialized in the middle of a commercial establishment and  _possibly_  jeopardized his entire life—maybe even Sehun’s. It honestly ticks him off a little bit. Or  _a lot_.  
  
“I go by Oh Sehun, actually. And are you  _crazy_ , why would you telep—I mean, I’m sorry for... you know. Y-You startled me. Do you need help?” he backpedals fast and almost squeaks that last bit out.  
  
He really doesn’t mean to sound so crabby, especially not on the first meeting. And he  _did_  accidentally throw the guy across the room, so...  
  
The teleporter’s head is tilted back against the counter now, allowing Sehun a glimpse of heavy-lidded eyes—and they’re staring back at him,  _smiling_. His mouth is curved up, one side higher than the other. Admittedly, it’s a rather attractive look on him but Sehun frowns because it’s like he’s missing a joke. What’s so funny?  
  
“You’re funny,” drawls the man, clearly amused by who knows what. Sehun starts.  
  
“Are you telepathic, too?”  _God,_  he really doesn’t need another one of those for a neighbor; Lu Han is already a handful.  
  
“What?” The man looks confused even as he faintly laughs through his nose. “No, I’m—No. I just teleport. And to answer your first question—yes, I’m Kim Jongin.”  
  
The teleporter— _Jongin_ —pulls his legs up, bending at the knees, and plants both hands on the floor at his sides. Sehun sees the struggle in his shaking arms as he tries to push himself up. He doesn’t even manage to lift his butt off the ground. He breathes out, noisy and labored, as he wilts back into the counter, arms going limp.  
  
That last...  _trip_  clearly took a lot out of him.  
  
Sehun isn’t quite sure what to do so he says the first thing that comes to mind: “Have you had dinner? I have chocolate muffin.”   
  
Jongin doesn’t budge, doesn’t make a move to look at him. He probably  _can’t_  move at all.  
  
“No, thanks. I just... I need a... nap.”  
  
Sehun panics for a second when Jongin looks like he’s serious about passing out on the café floor. Before he does, though, Sehun quickly crouches beside him and says, “You can take that nap in your own bed. Come on, I’ll help you up.”  
  
  
  
Knowing that Jongdae’s probably occupied, Sehun texts Yixing to ask for Jongdae’s PIN instead. Jongin is about seventy-five percent unconscious by the time they reach the right door. Jongdae’s previous apartment is directly below Sehun’s on the second floor. The building doesn’t have many units to begin with, so it’s almost impossible to get lost.   
  
He can already feel the strain in his muscles as he carries most of Jongin’s weight straight to the bedroom.  
  
This is familiar territory for him; he’s helped cart a wasted Chanyeol home a couple of times before after all. At least Jongin’s not a noisy, whining giraffe with limbs that are too long and awkward to contain without Sehun getting elbowed in the side or hit in the face.  
  
Sehun leaves the bedroom door wide open. He moves around, the teleporter still latched to him, with help from the light streaming in from outside. Tossing the paper bag to the foot of the bed ( _who the heck moves into a new place with only a small brown paper bag?_ ), Sehun grabs the comforter, haphazardly throwing it over to the other side. Jongin promptly flops face-down on the cushion.  
  
Sehun is heaving from the effort as he stands there, hands on his hips. He really needs to start doing regular cardio exercises. For a moment he considers leaving the man like that, but that feels a little cruel. In the end, he concedes to his own conscience. He tugs Jongin’s boots off, ignoring the man’s weak attempt at protesting, and then helps him readjust so that his head is on the pillow while the rest of his body is warm under the quilt.  
  
Soon enough, Sehun catches light snoring sounds. He should probably be annoyed, but he feels oddly accomplished instead. He knows he deserves that chocolate chip muffin for all that he’s done tonight, but for some reason he decides to leave the small box on Jongin’s bedside table.  
  
_A welcome gift,_  he reasons, though he really has no explanation for why he keeps thinking about the man’s mouth and how warm his body felt against his as he lies awake in bed later that night.

 

   
  
---


	3. Chapter 3

**iii.**  
  
The next morning, Sehun is rudely awakened by Tao and Yifan standing behind the door when he finally answers after five solid minutes of ceaseless buzzing.  
  
“Someone better be dying or something,” he snarls right off the bat. It’s far too early for brightly shining, grinning faces.  
  
“Of course you forgot,” Tao grumbles, while Yifan snickers behind him and says, “I told you he would.”  
  
Sehun is still shooting daggers at them because he’s already up when the sun barely is, and he honestly doesn’t know what’s going on.  
  
“Get dressed,  _maknae_ —we’re going for a jog.”  
  
_A jog._  Right. Maybe he does vaguely remember agreeing to something like that last weekend. But now his head hurts and his arms are sore, and he tells them so with as miserable a face as he can pull. Yifan archs an eyebrow at him.   
  
“Nice try. You don’t jog with your  _arms_. Get dressed.”  
  
He doesn’t sound like he’s taking no for an answer.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
“I hear he’s from Busan,” says Tao offhandedly.  
  
Sehun’s shoe scuffs a bit too hard on the concrete that he almost trips.  
  
“ _Busan_?”  
  
No wonder. That’s a  _long_  way to teleport.  
  
“I didn’t catch an accent, though?”  
  
Tao shrugs. “Maybe he’s not originally from there either, I don't know.”  
  
Yifan’s a good distance ahead by now. He knows Tao is falling behind on purpose to keep him company because there's no way a Wushu master is this  _slow_. Sehun's gasping for air while his companion doesn’t even break a sweat. Damn athletes.  
  
Sehun cuts his pace down to a regular walk. He nudges Tao with his elbow. “Hey, you can go catch up to Yifan-hyung if you want. I’m good,” he says.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
Sehun nods, standing still now, hands on his hips as he tries to catch his breath.  
  
“Well, okay. But hey, don’t forget the housewarming tonight!”  
  
Sehun almost asks,  _‘what housewarming?’_  Then he remembers the group message from Lu Han that says:  
  
_Housewarming at Jongin’s tonight 6 P.M. Pot luck! Don’t forget!_  
  
“Pot luck. Great,” he mutters under his breath.  
  
He wonders if instant kimchi ramen will do, because that’s really all he has in his kitchen—all the while ignoring the prickling wave of  _something_  that begins to assault his stomach at the thought of seeing Kim Jongin again. Maybe he’s just hungry.  
  
_Right. That’s probably it._  
  
With Tao and Yifan out of sight, escape is very much feasible now. Sehun doesn’t turn around, though. He rarely goes out like this. And now that he has, he figures he might as well make the most of it.  
  
Taking a leisurely walk down the same pathway that Tao and Yifan disappeared to, he relishes the peace and quiet. The sun is up and the breeze is refreshing. He sees traces of spring, greens and bright colors, at every turn. It’s actually very nice. Nothing but rustling leaves interrupt the silence—and also the  _tog!_  of a ball hitting something hard. Probably a shoe.  
  
Sehun stops. He has no idea where he is, just standing in a clear path by a cluster of trees and stone walls. He hears a grunt, a ball bouncing against metal, then the faintest cry of exasperation. The sound is coming from ahead, a little off the pathway. Threading his way through spaces between a bunch of trees and shrubs, he sees a vast clearing not at all far from the actual path. He makes a beeline for it, spots one goalpost as he comes closer, and then another—just right next to Jongin. He’s bouncing a soccer ball on top of his head.  
  
Sehun freezes on the spot but Jongin immediately detects his presence anyway. He lets the ball fall to the ground as he turns sharply, alert. The moment he sees Sehun, his shoulders visibly relax, eyes growing wide, surprised—not in a bad way, though, if the shy, lopsided smile on his face is anything to go by.  
  
Sehun swallows nervously.  
  
There’s no cap or shadows over his face this time. Just dark hair that glistens under the sunlight and long-ish fringe sparsely fanned out over his eyes. It seems like it will be soft to the touch despite looking a fluffy, tousled mess, and Sehun doesn’t know how, but he just makes it  _work_. And his skin is flawless and the golden color of sweet caramel and—  
  
“Hey,” says Jongin, somewhat tentative.  
  
Sehun blinks out of the daze, tries not to stammer but fails miserably. “H-Hi.”  
  
If Jongin finds him lame, he doesn’t show it. The tips of Sehun’s ears are burning, and  _OH GOD,_  he really hopes Jongin doesn’t find him lame.  
  
If anything, though, Jongin appears to draw some kind of comfort in knowing that Sehun’s probably as awkward as he is, if not more. His smile grows wider, reaching all the way to his eyes.  
  
Sehun’s chest  _aches._  
  
“We haven’t been properly introduced yet. I’m Jongin. It’s nice to meet you.” He takes a couple steps closer, bending slightly at the waist as he politely extends a hand. Sehun meets him halfway.  
  
“I’m Sehun.” Jongin’s hand is soft and warm and Sehun can only hope that his isn’t all clammy and gross.  
  
“Um. Listen. Thanks for the muffin—and I’m sorry about last night. You practically had to carry me to my room.”  
  
“It’s fine. Nothing I haven’t done before,” he adds then immediately splutters when Jongin’s eyebrows shoot up.  
  
“NO! I mean, I’ve had to bring Chanyeol to bed a couple of—but not like  _that_ —he gets drunk sometimes so I take him home.  _His_  home. I take him to bed—because he’s so smashed he’s passed out, not to...  _ew_. I’ll stop talking.” He croaks, face scrunched, flaming crimson all the way down to his neck.  
  
He knew he was doomed the moment he opened his mouth, to be honest. He  _really_  could have stopped at  _‘It’s fine,’_  but  _of course_  he had to dig himself into a deeper hole. He’s an overachiever like that.  
  
Sehun’s just waiting for the ground to open up and gulp him down. His old, wrung-out Nikes have never seemed so interesting before. Not quite as interesting as the sound of sheer delight in Jongin’s laughter, though.  
  
Cheeks still flushed, Sehun glances up reluctantly to find the teleporter’s head lolled back, eyes bowed into mirthful half crescents as he indulges in a good laugh. It almost makes the humiliation worth it.  
  
He thinks he catches a quiet,  _“you’re cute,”_  somewhere there, and he blinks. That can’t be right. He’s ready to chalk it up to him projecting, but then Jongin’s kind of blushing now, too. Or maybe he really  _is_  projecting and Jongin’s just been under the sun a little too long.  
  
“Do you wanna play?” Jongin asks, nudging the ball toward him.  
  
Sehun deftly catches it under his foot, somewhat ambivalent as he considers his answer.  
  
“I haven’t played in a while, though. I don’t... think I remember the rules?” Except he  _does_. But his football skills are rusty now, at best—not that he was ever exceptionally skillful at it to begin with. And he’s not sure he’s keen on embarrassing himself any more than he already has.  
  
“No rules, then,” suggests Jongin eagerly.  
  
“What do you mean,  _‘no rules’_?” Sehun’s lightly juggling the ball back and forth between each foot now, just to distract himself mostly.  
  
Jongin shrugs.  
  
“You know, like—” and then he's gone from his spot, leaving a static-like break in the air. He pops back out instantly, this time right inside Sehun’s personal space.  
  
Sehun yelps, totally caught off guard. He scuttles backward, leaving the ball wide open for a steal, which Jongin gladly takes.  
  
Once he’s able to recover his bearings, Sehun gapes at the other Hybrid, shell-shocked. Meanwhile, Jongin smirks as he toes the ball into motion then points his heel down, letting the ball roll onto his foot. He holds it there for a couple of beats and then expertly flicks it over his head. He tucks it under his foot as it bounces on the ground.  
  
Sehun scoffs.  _Show off._  
  
Normally Sehun would be in a panic by now—two Red Flag Hybrids, active and out in the open—but oddly enough, he’s honestly not. What concerns him more is the fact that he just got unfairly one-upped back there and Jongin’s looking really smug about it right now.  
  
“I see how it is,” drawls Sehun, slightly miffed. He reads the clear challenge in Jongin’s eyes and it sparks something in him that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He doesn’t give it a second thought. Or even a first.  
  
Leaves rustle around them as the wind begins to pick up. Sehun returns the sly smile, eyes narrowing with intent, and breathes, “You’re on.”  
  
  
  
  
Nobody comes out a victor—not because no goals were made, but because they were too busy having fun outsmarting each other to actually keep score.  
  
“I hear you’re from Busan?” Sehun asks, breaking the silence, as they lie side by side on the grass, exhausted, sweaty, and out of breath.  
  
Sehun’s a bit more drained than Jongin is, mainly because he’s still not used to being active. On the other hand, by nature teleportation expends more energy than wielding something, as it directly involves every single cell of the body. The fact that Jongin isn’t unconscious by now means that he probably does it on a regular basis.  
  
“Nah. I just had to stay there for a few of months for a project. I was supposed to leave a week earlier but then Lu Han offered me a job on Lee Taemin’s comeback.”  
  
“But did you really teleport from Busan last night?”  
  
“Had to. The video shoot took longer than planned and the Express wasn’t running anymore by time it wrapped up.”  
  
The Busan-Seoul Express significantly cuts the travel time to forty-five minutes. Taking the KTX, of course, is still an option but takes almost two hours longer.  
  
_So you teleported? What if there were customers when you popped in?_  Sehun doesn’t actually voice this out because he  _is_  aware that it was past midnight, way past closing time, when Jongin appeared in the café—a fact which invalidates that argument.  
  
Also, Lu Han probably told him that someone would be waiting for him there. Jongin may not have been careless, but Sehun still thinks it was a stupid idea. He doesn’t tell him that either.  
  
“You think it’s stupid of me to be teleporting at all, don’t you?”  
  
Sehun startles at the question. His mouth opens and closes, soundless. He wonders what he should say to that—how to apologize, if he should even apologize at all—but then Jongin’s sniggering beside him.  
  
“So do I,” he says quietly, sober, surprising Sehun. “But it’s what I am—I’m a Red Flag Hybrid. I can’t change that.”  
  
What Sehun hears in his tone is not so much acceptance as resignation. It sounds a lot like the voice in his own head. But while Sehun chooses to retreat into a safe corner, Jongin seems to be the type who pushes the limits. He can see how he and Lu Han can get along.  
  
“Please. I’m not that crazy. Lu Han-hyung’s in a league of his own,” Jongin snorts. Sehun doesn’t realize until then that he actually said  _that_  one out loud.  
  
Sehun relaxes. “No lie there,” he agrees. “Shit,” he grunts suddenly. He props himself up on one elbow so that he can stare down at a baffled Jongin.  
  
“Seriously, are you sure you’re not telepathic?”  
  
Jongin’s eyes widen a fraction, amused. And then he’s cracking up. Loath as Sehun may be to admit, it’s one of the most adorable things he’s ever seen.  
  
“I already answered that. You’re just... easier to read than you think,” Jongin smirks.  
  
Sehun resents that, but he takes no real offense.  
  
“I am  _not_. Shut up,” he bites back even as he lies back down with a smile of his own.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
They head back home after Jongin gets a call from Lu Han saying that a truck has arrived for him.  
  
Instead of letting the two movers into the building, Lu Han asks them to leave the boxes in the lobby. They’re more than happy to oblige, no questions asked. This means less work for them after all. Meanwhile, Sehun gapes at his landlord in utter disbelief as he thanks the two burly men for their service after they haul the last box in. Some of these are pretty  _huge_  and right now there's only Lu Han and Sehun to help Jongin take everything up to his apartment.  
  
As soon as the truck is out of sight, one by one the boxes begin to jerk into motion. They glide across the polished floor to form a straight line, like obedient children on a field trip, while Sehun stares, motionless.  
  
“You worry too much, Sehunah.” The older sing-songs, jumping in behind the queue as it makes a beeline for the lift. It’s a tight fit inside even with just Lu Han there. “Take the other one. I’ll meet you guys on the second floor!” He nods at them as the door closes.   
  
Sehun shakes his head. “I keep forgetting he can do that. As if the telepathy isn’t bad enough.”  
  
The other elevator dings. Jongin chuckles as he follows Sehun in. “It’s cool, though, isn’t it?”  
  
It kind of is, to be honest. But Sehun just shrugs noncommittally because it’ll be a cold day in hell before he willingly acknowledges Lu Han’s coolness.  
  
  
  
The boxes are temporarily stacked in the second room to keep them out of the way. The housewarming is not for a few more hours, so Jongin figures he might as well start arranging his stuff.  
  
“If I help you unpack, would it be okay if I don’t contribute to the potluck tonight? Unless you want instant kimchi ramen?”  
  
Lu Han emits a derisive snort from a corner of the room, which Sehun pointedly ignores. He’s only half-joking. It’s shameless, but far from the most embarrassing thing he’s said or done around Jongin at this point. It doesn’t even bother him that Jongin’s blinking at him like he’s the oddest person alive. Sehun keeps a straight face while the teleporter looks like he’s biting back a laugh.  
  
“You’re not allowed to my party without chicken, Oh Sehun,” he says mock-sternly.  
  
Sehun pretends to dramatically huff in exasperation, but still makes a mental note to phone his favorite chicken delivery later.  
  
  
  
Not even thirty minutes in, the first thing that Sehun deduces, as he sifts through three boxes full of books, is that Jongin is a voracious reader. He almost feels ashamed about the measly eight he has sitting in his own bookshelf.  
  
But what he doesn’t expect is the teleporter’s apparent interest in the theory of foresight—in  _seers_. Sehun takes one particular book in his hand, fixating at the deep amber hardcover with debossed gold lettering. A book on premonitions.  
  
It’s Lu Han who makes a comment about it first.  
  
“Interesting,” the telepath muses aloud. Sehun feels the book slipping from his loose grip when Lu Han takes it, but he’s not quick enough to react.  
  
Lu Han flips the book over in his hand as he casually inquires, “You believe in premonitions, Jongin?”  
  
Sehun watches him closely, waiting.  
  
“I don’t know,” Jongin says nonchalantly, making no pause in carefully shelving books, two at a time. “I find it fascinating is all.”  
  
“Sure, but we all know seers are a  _myth_ ,” he says, inching closer to sling an arm around Sehun’s shoulder. “Right, Sehunnie?”   
  
Sehun's throat is parched. He stares stiffly at the older’s meaningful smile and finds that he can’t answer.  
  
“Well,” breathes Jongin. “The likes of us started as myths at one point. How do we know for sure that seers don’t exist?”  
  
The telepath nods.   
  
“Touché,” he concedes, patting Sehun’s shoulders twice before untangling himself to resume unpacking the rest of the books.  
  
Sehun is still reeling, winded all of a sudden. It shouldn’t come as a shock that Lu Han knows. Even though Sehun’s never breathed a word about it to anyone, except maybe to Chanyeol. He sees no point when he’s not even sure if—  
  
He closes his eyes for a second, takes a calming breath.  
  
_No point,_  he thinks and decides to let it roll off his back.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
It’s rather surprising to see that the new guy doesn’t seem to be new to anyone else.  
  
Not so much in Jongdae’s case, considering that he and Jongin work with Lu Han. Or Yixing because he’s Lu Han’s best friend and Jongdae’s boyfriend. As for the rest, Sehun doesn’t really know, but it sure looks like they’ve all met each other at least once before.  
  
The bigger surprise comes when Kyungsoo rolls out a huge cake with an inscription that says:  _‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SEHUNAH!’_  
  
It’s only a week away now so why not hit two birds with one stone—or at least that’s what Lu Han says as he pulls Sehun up from the couch and pushes him toward his cake. He incites a few laughs when he almost blows the entire thing off the table instead of just the candles. And then it occurs to him that this basically means that Jongin had made him order chicken for  _his own_  surprise birthday party. Sehun spots the crafty bastard standing by the counter with a chicken in hand—probably his second now. Or third—who knows?   
  
Jongin cheekily waves the drumstick at him and laughs when Sehun narrows his eyes darkly in a silent,  _“I am on to you, you punk.”_  
  
  
  
Later, Chanyeol dumps his gangly self next to Sehun on the couch, all the while precariously balancing a paper plate of  _japchae_  on one hand. Sehun emits a small squeak when the sudden shift almost makes him drop his slice of cake and he gives Chanyeol a chastising strike on the arm for it.  
  
“So,” Chanyeol begins, trying to play at casual, but Sehun knows him well enough to see right through it. “How are you finding Jongin so far? I heard you  _blew_  him away on the first meeting.” He chuckles at his own pun, peering at the younger’s face with rapt interest.  
  
“You are so lame,” groans Sehun. And yet he can’t stop the rush of blood to his face.  
  
“Really, though, how long has it been— _a day_? I haven't seen you hit it off so easily with anyone in a long time. Since  _me_ , actually, and that's just because I  _fed_  you.”  
  
Sehun would argue but there’s really no lie there. He attempts to stall by shoving a forkfull of cake in his mouth.  
  
How is he finding Kim Jongin so far? Cute. Funny. Smart. Bold. Sexy as fuck.  
  
A neutral, “He’s all right,” is what he answers instead. Despite how cool and unaffected he tries to sound, at the back of his mind he knows that he’s as transparent to Chanyeol as Chanyeol is to him.  
  
"You know, Jongin goes to Jongdae's gigs with us sometimes. That’s where I met him, actually.”  
  
Chocolate-laden prongs stop en route to Sehun’s mouth. From the corner of his eye he can see Chanyeol twirling glass noodles around metal chopsticks.  
  
“Now he’s gonna have to go  _every week_.” Obnoxious slurping noises and a shrug.  _“I’m just saying."_  
  
Sehun’s not really looking at Chanyeol but he still wants to wipe off the smug, knowing grin that he knows the man is wearing on his face right now.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Sehun stirs awake with a pounding headache, brightness stubbornly rapping on his eyelids. He emits a weak groan as he hazily registers a dull pain in his shoulder, possibly from lying on his side too long, and a blanket of comfortable warmth wrapped around his body.  
  
He lets his lashes flutter open and immediately regrets it when pinpricks of light begin to sting his eyes. Instinctively, he moves to shield his face with his hand, and stops short when he finds that he can't move his arm. He tries to stretch out his leg, but it turns out he can't do that either.  
  
For a split second he suspects paralysis or abduction or something really horrible along those lines. Terrified, he sucks in a breath, eyes blinking wide open, and the first thing he sees is smooth, golden caramel  _collar bones.  
  
What—_  
  
And then it hits him all at once—  
  
There is a hand draped over him, pinning his limbs down, while a pair of legs is holding his own hostage. His face is nuzzled in the hollow of a neck that smells like vanilla and spring and fabric conditioner. His one arm that's not sandwiched between two bodies hangs around a small waist, fingers splayed over the delicate dip of a smooth back, just right above the curve of an ass.  
  
He’s half a second away from a full-blown panic attack because,  _what the literal fuck why the fuck am I cuddling with Jongin_ , when a shrill scream comes bouncing off the walls and,  _God_ , it feels like someone just bulldozed his skull.  
  
Jongin jerks at the noise and accidentally kicks him in the shin. Sehun automatically yelps in pain, startling the jumpy dancer awake.  
  
Jongin loses it. He thrashes about blindly, trying to hastily pull himself away only to get tangled with the sheets and Sehun's long appendages again until they both tumble over the edge of the bed.  
  
Sehun lets out an undignified cry when his forehead connects with the hard floor.  
  
_Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark._  
  
With a strangled whine he carefully props himself up to a sitting position, all the while bemoaning the fact that he remembers absolutely nothing past his third—or was that fourth?—bomb shot. He has no idea what Baekhyun mixed in his drink or what he ate on the side with it, but if this nausea doesn’t let up he might just find out.  
  
“A-Are you okay?”  
  
Sehun’s head snaps up. Right. He didn't wake up alone. The reminder sets his face on fire even while he swallows down a sob.  
  
Jongin’s clearly not doing any better. He’s leaning heavily against the side of the bed, with one hand holding his temple.  
  
Whatever Sehun is going to say dies in his throat because Jongin is sitting in front of him, all hooded eyes, pale lips, and flawless,  _naked torso_. He has his toned shoulders hunched forward in a lazy slouch, effectively flexing his abdomen and making the distinct outline of muscles pop out.  
  
It takes effort but Sehun does manage to avert his gaze somehow.  
  
Jongin doesn’t meet his eyes. He appears to be transfixed on something  _below_  Sehun’s face—and that’s when it dawns on him that he’s not wearing a shirt either. Flustered, Sehun jolts into motion, attempting to make a grab for anything to cover himself with, but skids to a halt when he realizes how silly that is. He’s a man, after all; they both are. Although Sehun swings both ways, he doesn’t know for sure if the dancer does, too. Whatever the case, Jongin doesn’t seem too bothered by his own state of undress, so why should Sehun be?  
  
When he faces Jongin again, he spies a dusting of light pink over his cheeks as the teleporter ducks his head, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. Even with the hangover fogging his brain, Sehun finds this unexpected bashfulness terribly adorable.  
  
Before either of them can say one more word, they hear another scream from outside the room. This time they’re sure it’s Lu Han. Alarmed, they pull on the first shirt they get their hands on and scramble out of the bedroom. They come to an abrupt stop mere steps away from the door.  
  
Lu Han is standing in the middle of the living room, face white as a sheet.  
  
The wall beside the front door is smashed through. Not entirely collapsed, but the cement now sports a hole as big as a fist and a whole lot of deep cracks. A few lightbulbs are bust. The base of the curtain is singed and peppered with small leaves and thin vines that crawl up to the pole.  
  
The kitchen has it the worst.  
  
The induction cooker is painted with soot, almost unrecognizable. The pipe is burst open but frozen at the gap. In fact, the whole kitchen floor is frozen over. Even so, the coldness seems to be concentrated in that side of the apartment. It's actually rather comfortable where Sehun is standing, stunned and way too hungover to register a proper reaction.  
  
Lu Han’s rage reverberates through the four walls of the entire building as he bellows,  _“KIM MINSEOK YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE THE RESPONSIBLE ONE!!!”_  
  
  
  
They transfer to Lu Han’s penthouse after everyone has regained the ability to stand without getting the urge to hurl.   
  
Sehun begins to vaguely remember Lu Han calling an ‘open bar’ after dinner and letting everyone drink whatever they want in the spirit of it being a double celebration and a Friday night.  
  
After one too many bottles of hard drinks, Jongdae threw a high-voltage punch at the wall just for kicks. Chanyeol had gotten pissed that the cooker wouldn’t emit any flame and ended up accidentally setting it ablaze. The sprinkler wasn’t enough to kill the fire, so Junmyeon tried to get more water to flow and broke a pipe in the process. And then Minseok attempted to get the mild flooding under control by  _‘freezing the damage better’_. It was either Baekhyun or Chanyeol—probably Baekhyun—who proposed building an ice skating rink right in the kitchen, and with Minseok’s impaired judgment, he had thought it was a great idea.  
  
And now here they are.  
  
Unsurprisingly, it only takes ten minutes for Yixing’s system to completely recover. He has enough energy to restore only one other person to his normal state, so he drops an apologetic kiss on Jongdae’s forehead and then picks Kyungsoo as the more practical choice.  
  
Together, they head out to the healer’s flat to get to work on some herbal concoction that’s supposed to work like magic on hangovers, while everyone else goes to claim the most comfortable surface or corner to curl into as they wait. They’ve decided to just stay in one place for easier distribution later. Most of them don’t quite remember their own PIN right now anyway.  
  
Sehun trails after Chanyeol like a zombie. He goes straight to the sofa but Jongin is already there, so he plucks a pillow out from the side instead. He throws it to the ground and then plants his face on it as he prostrates himself on the floor. Sehun follows suit, lying supine using Chanyeol’s butt as his pillow.   
  
“From this day forward, I am banning alcohol in this building,” Lu Han declares, reclining in his La-Z-Boy with one hand over his eyes.   
  
Nobody’s feeling well enough to make a decent objection, but there  _is_  a strangled whine coming from under the coffee table, which suspiciously sounds a lot like Baekhyun. On the other hand, someone else—possibly Tao—grunts in agreement instead from somewhere in the direction of the pool table.  
  
“Sorry, Jonginnie,” Lu Han says, voice rough and tongue still a bit too slippery with alcohol to enunciate words properly. “We’re gonna have to relocate you until your apartment’s livable again.”  
  
“It’s fine,” comes the muffled reply. “But where?”  
  
“Junmyeon and I will talk, have something arranged. He  _did_  destroy your water pipe.”  
  
Sehun’s makeshift pillow vibrates as Chanyeol interjects. “Sehun’s got a spare a room.”  
  
There’s a beat of complete stillness.  
  
Sehun supposes this is his cue to bark out an opposition, or politely decline, or just say  _something_. Everyone else has a spare room, too. Maybe except Yixing, but then again he and Jongdae probably share one room anyway. It’s a solid argument and all he has to do is open his mouth and  _say it_. Instead, he goes completely stiff. The deepening grooves on his forehead are the only indication that he’s actually listening and not sleeping.  
  
Lu Han’s La-Z-Boy creaks softly under his shifting weight.  
  
The beat stretches into a longer, lingering, pregnant silence.  
  
Sehun doesn’t need to look to know that there are sharp eyes watching him and his skin almost prickles under the heat.  
  
Finally, someone breathes.  
  
“It’s okay,” says Jongin, sounding a little bit more sober now. “I wouldn’t want to impose. I can just—”   
  
“I don't mind.” Sehun hears his voice like it’s someone else talking and not him. “It’s just a room,” he adds, the impassive tone belying the fact that his pulse is racing so fast he’s feeling faint.  
  
Sehun opens his eyes, just a tiny crack, and catches Lu Han’s eyebrows shoot so high up they disappear under his messy fringe. The telepath just stares at him for a moment. And then he slowly nods, face lighting up.  
  
“It’s set, then,” he announces with a crooked grin while Chanyeol shakes with laughter.   
  
The howl of pain that Sehun extracts by pinching the side of Chanyeol’s stomach is the sound of sweet revenge. Satisfied, he drags his gaze away, only to lock with Jongin's completely by accident. The dancer’s head is propped on crossed arms, lying across a pillow. He’s looking at Sehun with an expression that he can’t quite read. Sehun doesn’t break eye contact despite the things it’s doing to his heartbeat, because if this is a staring battle he’s not going to be the one to look away first.  
  
Jongin seems puzzled at first, but a second later he's perking up, pupils dilating, as if he's finally catching on.   
  
He archs a brow, eyes hooded. It makes him look menacing. Evil. Like he’s going to bite you then burn your entire village to the ground. A far cry from the slow-blinking man Sehun’s come to know, who's perpetually a nod away from falling asleep. The contrast is striking, but Sehun’s been told that he’s prone to exhibiting the same dichotomy. Unruffled in the slightest, he cocks an eyebrow back.  
  
This silent contest goes on for a while until Jongin's lips begin to quiver at the corners, and then his mask finally breaks. He chuckles quietly as he buries his face into the pillow in forfeit.  
  
_I win_ , Sehun thinks, preening with satisfaction.  
  
But then the dancer raises his head and turns to him again, arms wrapping around the pillow. He settles back down, one side of his face pressed into the cushion, hair falling over his eyes. There’s a soft smile playing on his lips. Like gratitude. Or appreciation. Or just,  _I’m happy you said yes_.  
  
Sehun’s gut flips. He knows it has nothing to do with the hangover. This time, he’s the one who folds. He doesn’t even last five seconds. Sehun’s pulse pounds loud in his ears even after he turns away, lids screwed shut.  
  
It occurs to him then that maybe,  _maybe_ , he doesn’t really mind losing to Jongin so much.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Besides moving his desk and book case to his room, things stay pretty much the same for Sehun during the first week.   
  
Jongin moves in, but gets to sleep in his new room for only  _one_  night. Right the following morning, he and Lu Han leave for the Two Moons Ent. studio in the central business district in Busan. Lu Han spends more time at the headquarters in Seoul rather than at the second office, but he needs to be there when preparations are made for Lee Taemin’s comeback showcase. As it turns out, this also means that Jongin will be away for the rest of the week.   
  
Something feels off about being alone in his own apartment, which is very odd considering that Sehun has been living by himself for  _years_. But it's like it’s too...  _still_. Like there’s a gaping chasm staring him in the face, demanding to be filled. Maybe it’s having another bed and another bookshelf in the apartment when there's no one to use them. Perhaps there’s something about it that amplifies the feeling of being alone. Or maybe he just, kind of, sort of, misses seeing Jongin a little. Or maybe not.  _Probably not._  
  
  
For the first two days, Sehun starts making a habit of going for a run with Tao and Yifan in the morning. He keeps busy with work for the rest of the day so that he doesn't get a chance to dwell on things that he’d rather not think about.  
  
On the third day, Chanyeol shows up at his doorstep, unannounced, and shoves a big box of pizza to his face. He doesn’t know why his best friend is suddenly here on a workday, but he doesn’t hate the company.  
  
Sehun can feel Chanyeol observing him as he sets down two cans of apple cider on the table. He doesn’t say anything, though, just opens the box and makes a dive for the biggest slice with the most pepperoni on top. Normally Sehun will wrestle him for it. This time, he sits back and reaches for his drink instead. Hooking a finger on the tab, he pushes it up and takes a sip.  
  
“You don’t want pizza?” Chanyeol garbles, brows knitting together in bewilderment even while his many teeth are clamped on the tapered end of a greasy slice.  
  
“No, not really.”  
  
An eyebrow archs upward as the chef opens his own drink and chases down his food with it. He eyes Sehun with pure judgment.  
  
“Are you gonna be one of those couples who have permanent googly eyes around each other and can't bear to be apart for ten seconds without acting like the world is ending? Please tell me you're not because I believe I raised you better than that and it will offend me on a spiritual level if you prove me wrong.”  
  
"Hyung, what are you even talking about?" Sehun stares at him like he’s speaking in an entirely different language.  
  
Chanyeol clucks his tongue and fixes him with a look. “Jongin’s been gone  _three days_ , and you’re acting like a jilted boyfriend who won’t eat his perfectly good slice of pizza which, by the way, his awesome best friend raced over to deliver piping hot.”  
  
“Okay, stop,” Sehun crosses his arms defensively. “You’re  _reaching_. For your information, I just ate, literally, fifteen minutes ago. Yixing-hyung made dumplings. And for the nth time, Jongin and I are not a couple!”  
  
Chanyeol’s eyebrow twitches comically. “That's not what it looked like during the housewarming.”  
  
Sehun groans inwardly, face suddenly hot, as his traitorous brain backtracks against his will.  
  
Soon after he’d sobered up, thanks to Yixing and Kyungsoo’s  _nasty_  but very effective herbal antidote, the events of the night before slowly came back to him in fuzzy bits with Chanyeol filling in the missing pieces.  
  
Apparently Sehun’s bad luck in the spin the bottle game was unparalleled.  
  
He started complaining about feeling too hot after his third shot bomb. By the fourth, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it away. Jongin volunteered to play black knight for him when he insisted on staying in the game even though he’s clearly had more than enough to drink. And then Sehun suddenly started complaining about feeling  _cold_. Jongin was piss drunk at this point too. He took off his own shirt so that he could lend it to Sehun, but Sehun was so smashed he couldn’t even slip it on properly. Exasperated, he dragged Jongin to the bedroom because,  _“cuddles are nice and warm.”_  Hence, the state they woke up in.  
  
Sehun has no clue if Jongin remembers any of that. They never really got around to talking about it before he left. Actually, he hopes they never have to.  
  
Unfortunately, everyone else had been sober enough during all of it. Most of them generally stop at giving him weird, suggestive looks at the mention of Jongin’s name. Meanwhile, Baekhyun, being  _Baekhyun_ , goes the extra mile and keeps asking if he and Jongin had sex or even just kissed, to which he always emphatically replies in the negative despite the little tornado wreaking havoc in his chest. He doesn’t tell Baekhyun, but the absolute truth is that he has  _no idea_  what they did that night—if they did anything at all.  
  
“We were drunk!” Sehun argues with a spike in his tone, peeved at having to repeat this over and over again because his best friend is a cocky bastard who won’t let anything go. “Look, we don’t even have each other's number.”  
  
“I'm pretty sure he has yours,” says Chanyeol as he gathers up his pizza in both hands.  
  
"I gave him your number the day he and Luhan-hyung left,” he explains when Sehun merely blinks at him, confused. “He said he forgot to ask you beforehand. And Lu Han-hyung doesn’t have it because... well, he doesn’t really  _need_  it.”  
  
Phones are wasted on Lu Han, to be honest.  
  
Sehun considers this information for a moment. His forehead creases as he bites down on his lower lip.  
  
“Then why hasn’t he called?”  
  
It slips out before he can think better of it. Regret instantly hits when he realizes belatedly that he just unwittingly handed Chanyeol more ammunition. Eyes shifting in panic, his brain quickly tries to think of a way to reverse the damage. But he knows it’s too late when he hears Chanyeol snorting around another bite of pizza.  
  
There’s an odd mix of  _‘I knew it,’_  and  _’I told you so,’_  laced with a hint of delight and brotherly affection in the way Chanyeol shakes his head and smugly says, “You’re hopeless, kid.”  
  
  


*

  
  
  
A full week later, Sehun finally gets a text message from Jongin. Not that he’s been waiting.  
  
His phone buzzes on the night stand at exactly six in the morning. The little new mail icon completely falls off his radar at first, as he swipes a thumb across the touchscreen to make the noise stop. Stretching long arms over his head, he waddles into the bathroom to brush his teeth, and then splashes his face with water to ease the puffiness of his cheeks. Foregoing the toner, emulsion, and moisturizer, he takes a tube of tinted sunscreen and spreads just enough of it over his face and neck. The things he learns from Tao and Yifan.  
  
Changing into sweatpants and a more decent shirt takes only five minutes more. By 6:45 AM on the dot, he hastily pulls on a jacket and snapback and then heads out to meet Tao and Yifan in the lobby. Stepping into the elevator, he takes his phone out to shoot them a text that he’s on his way down. That’s when he sees the message from an unknown number. He doesn’t immediately realize who the sender could be. But the moment he does, his breathing halts.  
  
_**From: Unknown Number**  
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OH SEHUN!!! :) I’m the first to greet you today, right? Haha...  
I’m supposed to go back with Luhan-hyung today but one of the dancers came out with a busted a knee. Have to stay another day to adjust the choreography. It sucks I can’t join you guys for lunch. T_T Anyway, I’ll see you soon.  
—Jongin  
  
P.S. I hope it’s ok that I got your number from Chanyeol-hyung?_  
  
  
The time stamp reads 12 AM.  
  
Sehun completely misses the ding of the elevator when it opens. He’s still staring at his phone when Tao jumps in to yank him out before the doors can close on him.  
  
He fails to explain away the stupid smile that he has on his face for the rest of the afternoon. Luckily he can always conveniently chalk it up to the special occasion. Chanyeol doesn’t really buy it, but thankfully he lets it slide. Lu Han, on the other hand...  
  
“Save it. I don’t have to be a telepath to know what’s got that gross look on your face,” he says, straight-faced, as he slips into the empty seat between Sehun and Minseok during lunch at Chanyeol’s restaurant.  
  
Sehun pouts. “It’s my birthday; why are you so mean to me?”  
  
Lu Han looks askance at him for a few beats, like he’s deliberating whether Sehun is worthy of even an ounce of his mercy, and then motions for the birthday boy to lean a bit closer.  
  
“I’ll have you know,” he begins, tone impassive and modulated. “Jongin drafted that message yesterday morning and he had me proofread it like a hundred times until the very last second before he sent it. Like, seriously, he bugged me to wait up until midnight with him because he might fall asleep and miss it. But you didn’t hear any of that from me and  _you're welcome_.”  
  
Sehun leans back in his chair, unblinking. He’s not sure what kind of expression he has on right now but he’s pretty sure he must look  _really_  dumb because his face is beginning to hurt. Beside him, Lu Han chuckles as he slings an arm around Sehun’s shoulder.  
  
"Happy birthday,  _maknae_.”  
  
  
  
  
After lunch, Sehun takes his phone out and finally types a reply.  
  
_**To: Kim Jongin :)**  
Thanks! :) Yes, you were the first! Congratulations! *drum roll*  
Chanyeol-hyung’s lunch was awesome! Boy, did you miss out. XP  
I hope your back’s doing alright. Don’t bust your own knee from working too hard and come back safely. By TRAIN, preferably.  
  
P.S. You owe me chicken, Kim Jongin! Don’t think I forgot. :P_  
  
  
  
Sehun doesn’t get a text back but, to his surprise, his chicken  _does_  arrive in time for late dinner. Or midnight snack, more like, considering that it’s only a little under twenty minutes before the clock strikes twelve.  
  
It’s from a Kim Jongin, says the delivery man. Sehun figures as much. Except he was honestly only kidding when he mentioned the chicken. He didn’t expect him to follow through. It’s a really thoughtful gesture, but he can’t help feeling a little bad.  
  
With the bucket of fried chicken in one hand, he takes his phone and stares at the screen, pondering whether he should shoot a message now or just wait until Jongin gets home. Sehun pockets his phone, ultimately coming to the conclusion that he wouldn’t want to bother him in case he’s already resting. He’s caused enough trouble for one day.  
  
Sehun takes a peek under the lid as he pads over to the couch. That’s  _a lot_  of chicken for just one person. Too bad Up Rising’s got a gig tonight, which means he’s got no one to share with. To be fair, he knows that the guys didn’t want to leave him on the night of his birthday. They tried extra hard to get him to tag along tonight, but he just isn’t ready for that. Not yet, anyway.  
  
Settling on the couch, he puts a pillow between his lap and the bucket to diffuse the blistering heat emanating from the base. He flips through channels for a minute and instantly perks up when he discovers that there’s a Spider-Man movie marathon happening on cable.  
  
Just when he’s about to grab a chicken leg, he jumps to his feet when he hears the door rattle, like someone just plowed into it. He swings around, clutching the bucket to his chest—never mind that it’s scorching as fuck—in time to catch the lock beep. The door bursts open and a short-winded Jongin pushes inside looking like he just ran a hundred miles.  
  
“Oh, great! The chicken made it,” he pants, dropping his backpack right at the doorstep while he toes off his chucks.  
  
Sehun blinks, totally nonplussed. He wonders for a moment if he’s only seeing things. But it can’t possibly be an apparition when Jongin’s making so much noise. He almost knocks over the coat rack in his hurry to put his shoes aside.  
  
Sehun puts the bucket on the coffee table as he watches the other man produce a box and a gas lighter from the paper bag hanging on his forearm. Sprinting forward, Jongin takes out a chocolate chip muffin, letting the box fall to the ground in his haste. There’s a single candle planted on the center and he uses the gas lighter to ignite the wick.  
  
Sehun laughs as Jongin belts out a fast-forward rendition of the happy birthday song while he steps closer, cradling the pastry in both hands.  
  
“Hurry! It’s almost midnight!” Jongin bounces on his heels as he raises the muffin in front of the birthday boy’s face.  
  
Sehun blows the candle, but not before throwing out a silent wish for this warm feeling that Jongin’s presence brings to last a long, long time.  
  
  
  
Spider-Man marathon forgotten, they take the food to the dining table as Jongin proudly announces that he took the Express this time. But he did teleport from the station to the café. He had asked Minseok earlier to leave a muffin for him on a table. Then from there, he teleported to the lobby of the apartment to make sure that he makes it back before midnight.  
  
“Why not just go straight here?” Sehun asks, pinching a piece of crunchy chicken skin and tossing it in his mouth.  
  
“And risk getting thrown across the room again? No thanks.” Jongin scrunches his face and Sehun cackles.  
  
They catch up over chicken and the chocolate chip muffin that Sehun insists on splitting between the two of them. Sehun finds that he enjoys listening to Jongin talk about dancing. He lights up like nothing else when he does.  
  
Sehun himself used to dance when he was younger. His power over wind did not manifest until he was a senior in high school. A little late, but it didn’t bother him. It mostly stayed dormant then, anyway. By the time he was in college, it started to escalate. He would summon a light burst of wind by accident with a sudden wave of his hand. It happened in random and he couldn’t control it. Afraid of being caught and getting tagged, he decided to stop dancing and joining clubs altogether.  
  
Once tagged, Red Flag Hybrids get injected with a tracking device of sorts that alerts authorities in the event of activity. He doesn’t want to live his life like that. He wonders how Jongin escapes it every time. Or maybe his control over his teleportation is just  _that_  good.  
  
“Not really,” says the dancer in response when Sehun asks. “It takes a lot of effort for me, too.”  
  
Jongin pauses, setting his third clean bone of chicken on the plate in front of him. He looks pensive for a moment. Like he’s trying to decide if it’s wise to uncover more of himself. If he can trust Sehun or not.  
  
“So far I can only teleport to places I’ve already been,” he begins slowly, head kept low. Sehun can tell that it makes him feel uncomfortable, vulnerable talking about this. He’s about to tell him that he doesn’t have to keep talking when Jongin drags his gaze up and meets his.  
  
“Mostly I have it under control,” he continues. “But sometimes, when I’m not...  _all there_ —overcome with some emotion or just too much desire to be somewhere else—I snap. I feel like it’s always a conscious effort to keep myself where I am. I have to  _want_  to be where I am. I guess that’s another thing I love about dancing. When I’m moving to the music I can allow myself to let go and feel as much as I can. And at that moment there’s really no other place I’d rather be.”  
  
“I’d love to see you dance someday.” Sehun suddenly hears himself saying. He doesn’t take it back or try to make it out as a joke like he usually does when he makes an embarrassing slip, because he finds that he truly means it.  
  
The smile that he’s rewarded with is a pretty nice bonus, too.  
  
“I’d like that.”  
  
  
Jongin ends up devouring more chicken than Sehun does, and Sehun sulks a little but lets him. In exchange, Jongin gives him three-fourths of the muffin instead of just half. It’s not a bad compromise.  
  
When they’re finished, Sehun clears the table then brings the dirty dishes to the sink where Jongin is waiting.  
  
“I thought you weren’t going to be back until tomorrow?” Sehun takes a gander at the wall clock and reads 1:10 A.M. “Or later?” He amends as he turns and leans his lower back against the edge of the countertop.  
  
“So did I.” Jongin twists a lever to get the tap running, then playfully adds, “But hey, aren’t you happy I made it for your birthday?"  
  
_I’m just happy you’re here_ , Sehun thinks.  
  
Jongin’s hands go still under the running water. He turns to Sehun after a beat, and only then does Sehun realize, with staggering mortification, that he didn’t exactly just  _think_  it.  
  
“To wash the dishes, I mean,” his tongue races to append, putting full effort in trying keep the panic out of his voice.  
  
From his peripheral he sees Jongin watching him, but he doesn’t dare look at his face, doesn’t dare move at all. Jongin shakes his head, giving a light chuckle as he goes back to the task at hand.  
  
“You’re heartless, Oh Sehun.” Jongin mutters, but there’s no bite to his tone.  
  
Sehun gathers the courage to glance the dancer’s way and finds the smile still on his lips. It doesn’t even dawn on him that he’s staring or that he’s smiling now, too, when suddenly he feels an elbow jab at his arm. He yelps, more out of surprise than pain, really, and instantly jerks away.  
  
“What was that for?”  
  
“You’re crowding me. Go wipe down the table or something.” Jongin grumbles without looking away from the plate that he’s rinsing.  
  
Sehun spies a pinch of color blooming on Jongin’s face. His head makes the slightest dip, causing a few wayward strands to fall over his eyes. Sehun wonders if he does this out of habit whenever he gets embarrassed or shy. He barely notices his gaze sliding lower until it stops at Jongin’s mouth. He’s pouting now instead of smiling, but Sehun thinks it’s just as adorable.  
  
“Fine,” he concedes, pushing away from the sink.  
  
He might as well go before he does something incredibly dumb like maybe kiss Jongin’s adorable mouth.

 

   
  
---


	4. Chapter 4

**iv.**  
  
The alarm goes off right on schedule. Sehun rolls off of bed, rubbing sleep crusted eyes, and goes on autopilot.  
  
He tries to make as little noise as possible as he moves through his morning routine because he knows that Jongin  _loves_  his sleep possibly a little bit more than he loves chicken—and that’s saying a lot. His work hours vary, but no matter if his day ends late or not he usually sleeps until noon and then leaves for dance classes with trainees at the TM Ent. headquarters before two. Not that Sehun has been keeping tabs or anything.  
  
And so when Sehun steps out of his room and hears someone puttering about in the kitchen, he immediately stops in his tracks, confused. With light, careful steps he turns a corner and finds Jongin stationed in front of the stove, with one hand on his hip and the other around the handle of a turner.  
  
The smell of home-cooked breakfast wafting up his nostrils sends his salivary glands into overdrive. He pictures a simple set of bacon, eggs, and buttermilk pancakes, and it makes his stomach whine. This is something he hasn’t had in a  _long_  time.  
  
“Oh, hey, you’re up,” Jongin presses a button on the induction cooker. “Omelet’s almost done, just give me a minute.”  
  
That Jongin can cook at all is a big revelation and, to be honest, it bumps up his attractiveness score to, maybe, twelve out of ten. The way his white shirt stretches across broad shoulders and how his gray drawstring pants hang low over a firm butt don’t go unappreciated either. Sehun doesn’t breathe a word as he watches the dancer bring plates of bacon and pancakes out to the table, as if breathing too loud might shatter the illusion. Except this isn’t an illusion, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when Jongin speaks again, yanking him out of his trance.  
  
“I have an early schedule today so I figured I’d make us breakfast.”  
  
Jongin suddenly halts, mid-sprint. He turns to Sehun dubiously, shoulders stiff.  
  
“Or are you heading out for a run with Tao and Yifan-hyung? You’re not supposed to run with a full stomach—” He sounds a little deflated, his posture losing the air of confidence that usually clings to his skin, and it grates on Sehun’s conscience.  
  
He’s vehemently shaking his head even before the man can finish talking.  
  
“No, no, I’m not! Not today.” He says it with so much conviction that it  _hopefully_  cancels out whatever the sweats he’s already wearing might suggest. But it doesn’t stop Jongin from eyeing him suspiciously from head to toe.  
  
Jongin’s brows twitch.  
  
“You’re not?” There’s a teasing grin pulling at the edge of his mouth.  
  
_Busted._  
  
Sehun flushes pink.  
  
“Not...  _anymore_.” He rectifies as he self-consciously rubs at his nose. “I’d rather eat than exercise, okay.” And like hell he’s going to pass up Jongin’s home-cooked breakfast for anything. But he doesn’t say that out loud.  
  
The picture of pure delight on Jongin’s face burns in the back of his mind as he pads back to his room on springy feet.  
  
_**To: Kung Fu Panda; Dragon-hyung**  
Taking a rain check! :)_  
  
  


*

  
  
  
In the days that follow, Sehun comes to discover what Jongin meant when talked about not being  _‘all there’_. Apparently these moments often occur any time before noon.  
  
Getting back from a jog one morning, Sehun goes straight to the fridge to get some water and nearly drops the glass when Jongin pops up right in front of his face. His eyes are closed, hair mussed and sticking out in every direction, like he just teleported straight from bed. He immediately blinks awake, though, when Sehun emits a very un-manly squeak.  
  
“Oh. Oops.” Jongin sounds like his vocal chords are barely working. Seeing that it’s only his flatmate, his eyelids draw back down while Sehun clutches at his chest as he struggles to calm his erratic pulse.  
  
“You’re gonna give me a fucking heart attack!”  
  
“Sorry. Thirsty. Can I?” The teleporter mumbles in staccato as he blindly reaches out a hand.  
  
Sehun doubts Jongin’s even conscious at all right now. Huffing in exasperation, he places the drink against Jongin’s open palm, smearing it with the condensation forming on the outside of the glass. Fingers automatically wrap around it the moment the cold touches his skin. He brings the glass to his mouth and takes big gulps before handing it back empty.  
  
“Thanks.” And then he’s gone again, vanishing in a thin cloud of smoke.  
  
It’s come to a point where instances like that don’t bother Sehun too much anymore. He almost expects it every morning like a part of his daily routine. Jongin also often teleports to different places in the apartment at will, fully awake. Sometimes it seems like he does it just to spook Sehun, never mind the risk of getting  _literally_  blown off his feet. Sehun has gotten used to that, too.  
  
But when Jongin, half-asleep, starts materializing in the bathroom to pee  _while_  Sehun is in the shower for a post-run bath, it becomes a real problem. Mainly because the image of Jongin’s morning wood is something that’s impossible to erase. It leaves him in a very compromising state whenever his stupid brain decides to remind him about it at random moments during the day.  
  
  
“Okay, how about this,” Jongin begins as he rearranges himself on the couch so that he’s facing Sehun.  
  
“How about we...  _train_  each other?”  
  
Sehun reluctantly tears his eyes away from the screen to make a sulky face at his flatmate. Spider-Man is on again tonight and he really likes this movie.  
  
“What?”  
  
Frowning, Jongin grabs the remote and switches off the television, much to Sehun’s chagrin.  
  
“Hey!” He makes a grab for the controller but Jongin is way faster.  
  
“No, listen! This is important if you don’t want me walking into you in the bathroom again.”  
  
Sehun’s mouth clamps shut, heat crawling up the apples of his cheeks. If he’s being completely honest, it’s not that he  _hates_  it, per se; it’s just rather...  _inconvenient_.  
  
“Alright,” he sighs in defeat. “Train each other  _how_?”  
  
“I don’t know... maybe you can scream at me every time I sleep-teleport? Throw something at me? Kick me?”  
  
Sehun snorts, deadpans, “How is that...” Hands move to draw quotation marks in the air, “... _‘training’_  you?”  
  
“It’s just a theory,” Jongin responds with an offhanded shrug. “But I figured it could make me more cautious about teleporting, on an  _instinctive_  level. If that makes sense?”  
  
Shockingly, it does. A little bit. In a way it’s kind of like training a puppy. Rewarding good deeds; punishing bad ones. Something like that.  
  
“Okay, let me get this straight.” Sehun stares at the other man quizzically. Fingernails dig into the faux leather seat, leaving little crescent marks that disappear almost as fast as they form, while he repositions himself on the couch.  
  
“You want me to physically  _hurt_  you?”  
  
Jongin’s mouth opens, freezes, then closes again. His face scrunches thoughtfully, like he’s considering things from a different angle for the first time.  
  
“Well... in a sense, I guess?” He says as he slumps against the pillows, lightly scratching at his cheek  
  
“And you think this will work?”  
  
“Maybe?” Even as he sounds more and more skeptical by the minute, he doesn’t appear too keen on retracting his proposition altogether. “We won’t know until we try.”  
  
Sehun’s head slowly tilts to one side. Well, if Jongin wants to get hit...  
  
“I can do that.” Sehun’s mouth pulls up impishly at the corners. Color drains from Jongin’s face, squirming as he chews on his lower lip. He looks like he’s questioning his life choices and Sehun struggles not to laugh. Jongin tries to shoot him a baleful glance but it’s obvious to them both who has the upper hand here.  
  
“Just. Don’t have too much fun with it.”  
  
“Can’t promise I won’t,” drawls Sehun darkly.  
  
He’s pretty sure he’ll end up just yelling at Jongin, or throwing him a weak hit, maybe. He doesn’t have the heart to hurt him for real, but Jongin doesn’t need to know that.  
  
“And how will you train  _me_?”  
  
Jongin breathes out—resigned to his fate, it seems like—as he slides down until his head is resting on the cushy arm rest. This leaves his lower body in an awkward position, with his spine curled and knees folded tightly, heels planted against his butt. It seems like the most natural thing to do when Sehun grabs his ankles to stretch the dancer’s legs over his own lap.  
  
“I have a feeling I already have,” says Jongin. Sehun hears the smug grin in his voice rather than sees it. “You haven’t thrown me across the floor once since the first time. You’re a quick study.”  
  
Sehun chokes on air as the words prompt a flashback of the past weeks, all the way to the time that they met, and he finds that Jongin is right. He's  _right_. Sehun breaths a quiet gasp when he realizes it. He thought it was impossible to even come close to getting a full handle on his ability; that he’ll always have to resort to hiding away to keep himself from hurting anyone by accident. He's never been happier to be wrong.  
  
Sehun sniffles, giggling quietly at how Jongin is wriggling his toes to a beat that only exists in his head. He’s never completely still. Some part of him is always,  _always_  dancing. He finds it quite endearing.  
  
“Hey, why aren’t you at The Lost Planet with the rest of the guys?” Sehun asks, breaking the silence. “Jongdae-hyung’s band is playing tonight.”  
  
“The same reason why you won’t get crab when we go out for seafood even though you love it.” Jongin simply says and this catches Sehun off guard. He tries not to let it show.  
  
Jongin is allergic to crab. Meanwhile, Sehun  _loves_  crab and it’s unfortunate because he knows that the dancer actually does too. When Sehun found out, he opted not to order it again. Jongin never seems to mind, but it just doesn’t feel right to indulge himself when Jongin can’t. He hadn’t expected the other man to notice.  
  
“Because you’re watching your cholesterol?”  
  
He gets a pillow to his face for the quip.  
  
“I’m being a good flatmate and keeping you company, dumbass.” Jongin barks, though a tinge of mirth dilutes the harshness of his tone.  
  
Sehun hides the fond smile behind a noncommittal grunt as fingers lazily drum on the soft cotton material that covers the dancer’s shin. He falls silent, inexplicably tense. There are secrets trapped in his chest, and he can feel them wanting to break out. He swallows thickly.  
  
“Aren’t you gonna ask me why I never go?”  
  
Jongin’s toes stop moving.  
  
“Am I allowed to know?”  
  
Sehun removes his hand from where it rests on Jongin’s leg, lips pressing in a thin line. He doesn't hesitate, just spits it out—  
  
“I've killed people.”  
  
There's really no way to sugarcoat something like that, he thinks.   
  
A beat passes. Jongin sits up, tucking his legs under himself. He doesn’t breathe a word, doesn’t push, just waits for Sehun to speak.  
  
“Do you remember—this was a couple of years ago—when news broke about a torrent of powerful winds knocking down billboards in  _Hongdae_? It left two people dead and a dozen others injured. Do you... do you remember that?”  
  
“Sehun, that was an accident.”  
  
It’s nothing Sehun hasn’t heard before. That was an accident. It wasn’t your fault. Don’t blame yourself.  
  
Something in him snaps and he continues like he hears nothing.  
  
“You know what brought it on? It was around the Christmas season, the entire place was packed. You’ve been there, I’m sure you know how easily the streets fill up. I was trying to squeeze past the mob of people because I was running late for a fucking  _date_. I was so frustrated that I had this sudden thought of—it’s stupid but I hoped the crowd would part in the middle, like the Red Sea in the Bible, you know, so there would be a clear path for me to pass through. It was just a  _stupid, selfish thought_ , but then the air  _just_ —”  
  
“Sehun—” Jongin moves closer, leans in, like he wants to touch him but he’s not sure if he’s supposed to.  
  
The heel of Sehun's hands push against closed lids, willing the throbbing behind them to ease up, the springing tears not to fall. He cards a hand through his hair as he draws a lungful of oxygen; keeps breathing through his mouth until he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning anymore.  
  
It doesn’t matter how much time has passed, or how long he hasn’t spoken about it. There's a sharp knife impaled in his chest and he doesn’t know if he can ever pull it out. For a moment he doesn’t say anything, just stares up at the ceiling with dark, hollow eyes.  
  
“I may not have meant it to happen, but it still did and I still had a hand in it. I can’t bring those people back.” The knife twists. It smarts but he swallows it down. “And I vowed never to let it happen again, no matter what.”  
  
He barely catches the shift until the space beside him dips heavily under fresh weight. A hard shoulder knocks against his bony one. Without being asked or prodded, as natural as breathing, Sehun’s hand turns over the second the dancer's skin grazes his wrist. Jongin's palm is warm and soft as it gingerly kisses his, fingers easily slipping into the spaces that Sehun purposely makes for him.  
  
This time he doesn’t offer any words of comfort. Doesn’t tell Sehun that he’s wrong; it’s not his fault; that he should move on because it’s been so long. Jongin just sits beside him, so close he’s almost sitting on his lap. He holds Sehun’s hand in a stable grip, like an anchor, and somehow it’s enough.  
  
A few moments pass and then Jongin begins to climb to his feet, fingers still clasped in Sehun’s.  
  
“Come with me,” he says calmly. It doesn't quite look like he’s asking. “I've figured out how I'm going to train you.”  
  
Sehun doesn’t let go but he doesn’t budge either. He regards Jongin dubiously. One look at the dancer’s face, at the crooked grin on his lips, and he knows right away that he’s not going to like this. He lets his grip fall loose but the other man only holds on that much tighter.  
  
“No, no way, Jongin—”  
  
“Look,” He levels Sehun with a stern look. “You want to see me dance, right?”  
  
  


*

  
  
  
The soles of Sehun’s chucks scuff heavily against the concrete as he drags his feet across a busy alley. Or more like, as  _Jongin_  drags him along.   
  
The Hongik University area shows no signs of slowing down even though it’s late into the night. It’s just as bright and noisy as Sehun remembers and it makes his insides twist into knots. He has no idea where they’re going. Honestly, he doesn’t care just as long as this is over and done with. But he does hope that it’s somewhere his simple, striped long sleeve shirt and ripped jeans won’t look too shabby.  
  
Sehun keeps his head low, lets the dancer lead him whichever way, making sure to stay close. He’s got no reprieve other than the feeling of his hand in Jongin’s and he can’t afford to lose that. They come to a stop in front of an entrance—Sehun doesn’t know which one because he’s still intently watching the ground—and calls out a name— _Yunho-hyung_. Jongin gets several acknowledgements back, and soon enough they’re stepping over the threshold.  
  
The pungent, overbearing trails of smoke, alcohol, and vigorous youth instantly hits, and Sehun scrunches his nose in distaste. He bumps Jongin’s back as they shuffle past swinging arms and bobbing shoulders, all the while trying to keep his mood in check. The most he can do is make sure that he has his emotions under control—no unexpected spike of anything extreme that might trigger activity. He feels Jongin give his hand a reassuring squeeze as they make a beeline to where vitality seems most potent. Jongin moves fast despite the throng, as though to eliminate any chance that Sehun will overthink and balk. It’s too late for that anyway, he thinks wryly.  
  
The opening beats of an old-school hip-hop track that Sehun recognizes blasts through the speakers. The rhythm permeates his skin, seeps right through his veins, just like it used to when he was young and carefree and still danced to music like this. It gets increasingly louder as he’s taken deeper into the dance floor, the strong bass inviting his heartbeat to pound in time with it. Gradually, it does, and all of a sudden he’s flowing through the crevices instead of pushing against the current.  
  
It’s impossibly crammed and dark inside, making one face nearly indistinguishable from another. Everything that’s not veiled in darkness is swathed in blue monochrome. Jongin drops his hand and he abruptly stops. His gaze shoots up, unsettled and frantic at the feeling of loss, until he feels fingers around his waist, steadying him.  
  
“You made it. No harm done, see?”  
  
Hot breath grazes his ear and he tries not to shiver. From the fact that there are people bumping against his back and his sides, he easily infers that there’s no space at all to retreat. Jongin’s face is still pressed beside his when his hands come up to grip the dancer’s shoulders, hoping against hope that the heavy bass in the air can camouflage the hammering in his ribcage.  
  
“I thought I was going to see you dance?” He accuses, though he knows he should have probably expected this.  
  
“Oh, you are. But you’re going to join me.” There’s a hint of mischief in Jongin’s deep tone that makes him sound predatory. Sehun’s stomach rumbles.  
  
“This is cheating. I thought I was going to get a private show.”  
  
Jongin’s head lolls back as he laughs, strobe lights dancing over his skin, making the thin sheen of sweat down the side of his neck glitter invitingly. Sehun’s cheeks color at how he’s a little out of breath already when they haven’t even started yet.  
  
Jongin looks at him with a soft smile and it calms Sehun to the deepest of his core even as it steals away another breath. He briefly catches the wicked glimmer in Jongin’s dark eyes before the firm grip at his sides pulls him closer.  
  
“Who says this isn’t going to be a private show? I’m not dancing with anyone else tonight, Oh Sehun.”  
  
Sehun chokes on his own saliva.  
  
For the rest of the night, Jongin makes good on his promise with every deliberate roll of his hips and sensual sway of his body. Sehun gives back just as good as he’s getting, completely forgetting where they are or how many people are around. Jongin cocks an eyebrow, surprised that he knows how to move like that. Sehun merely smirks. He lets his fingers clasp behind Jongin’s neck, biting his lower lip as he rewards him with a slow, subtle grind. The dancer eyes him approvingly, fingers skimming along his waist. Jongin leans in so impossibly close that Sehun feels his breath against his lips, but neither one of them makes that dive.  
  
“You’ve got fans.” Jongin whispers, voice a bit tight. Sehun has noticed some eyes on him, but honestly he’s only got eyes for one person tonight.  
  
He huffs back. “You’re one to talk.”  
  
Guys and girls alike have been crawling up to Jongin’s side, trying to get his attention. Sehun can’t really blame them. He tries not to be upset or to worry that Jongin will eventually want to change partners. It helps that the dancer always finds a way to intercept those attempts, like snaking his arm around Sehun and smoothly whisking him away. The display of possessiveness effectively keeps anyone from trying to snatch either one of them from the other.  
  
  
It’s a few hours after midnight when they get back to the apartment. Adrenaline fuels Sehun even as his entire body is icky and sore and begging for the comfort of a bed. He hears Jongin giggling as he toes off his shoes beside him in the doorway.  
  
“What’s so funny?”  
  
Jongin steps past him and offers a hand. It’s strange because it’s just a half step up from where he’s standing and it’s not like he’s drunk or anything that he  _needs_  it; but Sehun finds himself taking it anyway. He can get used to holding Jongin’s hand, if he isn’t already.  
  
“You.” He says simply and Sehun pouts, indignant. He opens his mouth to protest but Jongin shushes him by leaning in and pressing lips to his.  
  
Sehun gasps, heart skipping almost painfully. There's a subtle quiver in the man's lips, tentative yet determined. Something about it tells Sehun that he's not the only one who's been thinking about this the whole night. The thought makes him smile into the kiss. Jongin seems to notice and he pulls back, just a hairsbreadth, his own mouth curving up at the edges. He steps closer, letting Sehun's hand go to skim fingers along the jut of his hipbones. Then he's diving back in. Sehun grips Jongin's arms, feeling the rip of muscles in his biceps, and it makes his knees weak.  
  
Sehun inhales the remnant whiff of cigarette smoke, sweat, and subtle perfume. It's kind of unappealing, except he's probably not doing any better and he really can’t complain because  _Kim Jongin_  is  _kissing_  him right now. He honestly hasn’t done this in a while, and so he tilts his head just slightly and lets Jongin lead, willingly parting his lips wider when the dancer's tongue swipes at the small gap.  
  
And then a blinding flash hits the back of his eyes out of nowhere. His head spins. His air passage is clogged, throat pinched tight, lungs clamoring for oxygen. His brain is shutting down. Everything feels weak. He's suffocating.  
  
Sehun quickly pulls away, gasping loudly as his eyes flutter open, panicked. He takes another frantic breath, just to make sure that he can. The bizarre sensation lasts merely a second or two but it leaves him shaking all the way to his toes.  
  
He hears Jongin calling his name; sees alarm in his eyes. He vaguely registers that the dancer is holding his hands again. For a second he just stares at Jongin’s face—at knitted brows, sharp eyes, kiss-swollen mouth.   
  
And then he figures it out.   
  
_No._  
  
It feels like someone dealt him a strong blow to the stomach.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
Sehun swallows.  
  
“Yeah. Just tired.” He lies without hesitation, fighting the niggling urge to detach from Jongin completely. “I think I should go to bed.”  
  
“Yeah, okay.” Jongin says even as his eyes keep searching Sehun’s face.  
  
Sehun doesn't mean to flinch when Jongin leans in. He sees hurt in the man’s eyes and guilt immediately claws at his chest. Jongin lets him go, but this time it’s Sehun who hangs on tighter. He plants a chaste kiss on Jongin’s mouth in apology.  
  
“Good night.” He whispers against the dancer’s lips.  
  
“Good night.” Jongin sighs faintly.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
“That can’t be right.”  
  
Sehun hears his own thoughts coming out of Chanyeol’s mouth. He doesn’t know how many times he’s repeated that same thing over and over in his mind, trying to convince himself of the truth in it.  
  
He squirms in his perch on the floor, pulling his legs up to rest his chin on his knees.  
  
“Look, you said you’re supposed to get visions the moment you meet...” Chanyeol hesitates. Sehun forlornly meets big, frantic eyes. The older man exhales, as if doing so will release the tension that has come to mount on his shoulders.  
  
“I mean, you’ve known Jongin for  _months_  now. Shouldn’t you have gotten it a long time ago?”  
  
“I don’t know, hyung.” He sounds so,  _so_  tired. “Maybe something changed. Or maybe it just came late. The elemental aptitude didn’t manifest until I was late in my teens, remember? Before then I had no idea I’d inherited the wind thing from my dad.”  
  
Chanyeol puffs out another loud breath, slumping back on the cushion as he rakes a hand through his hair. He looks at Sehun sadly.  
  
“Man, did you hit the genetic lottery jackpot or what?”  
  
Sehun groans. His forehead lands on top of his knees none too gently. With a Red Flag Hybrid for a father and a seer for a mother, he really can’t argue. Just, why did he have to inherit both? Why did his parents have to go and become casualties of the Riot, and leave him with no one to tell him how this is supposed to work?  
  
There was his uncle, of course, who had been a seer like his mother, but he didn’t leave Sehun with much in terms of know-how. All he’s come to learn is that for anyone with this ‘gift’, meeting the person who will have a hand in his or her own death will trigger the premonitions. It’s specific and irreversible, he had said.  
  
“Maybe it’s not what you think?” Chanyeol offers, his conviction wobbly at best. “I mean, your uncle—when he got his vision, his trigger didn’t... hurt him. Right?”  
  
Sehun’s lips press in a thin line.  
  
His uncle. Lee Donghae used to work as a foreman at one of the smaller construction firms in the city. His trigger had been one of their clients. A haughty, middle-aged capitalist who was looking to expand his real estate business. His uncle Donghae had been a good man; but even the best of them crumble. He had not been the same ever since the first premonition hit. He spaced out a lot. Never really,  _truly_  smiled. Sehun remembers being scared because he almost couldn’t recognize his own uncle anymore. He was on his way home from school when he got a call from police. The client’s skull had been repeatedly clobbered with a large stone. His uncle had been detained.   
  
“No, I don’t think so.” Sehun mutters, voice muted by the little cocoon of arms and legs donning washed out denim that he’s built around his face.  
  
Chanyeol claps. “See! So maybe it doesn’t always turn out the way we think it does!”  
  
Sehun is still hugging his knees when he looks up, movements heavy. His restless toes have taken to a relentless cycle of curling and uncurling again, snagging at the soft wool carpeting underneath.  
  
“My uncle was on death row for years because of him. Or because of what my uncle did, but—” Sehun bites his lip, shaking his head. The thought that  _he_  might do something to hurt Jongin is even more unbearable.  
  
Chanyeol’s shoulders sag, crestfallen. He slides off of the couch to join Sehun on the floor instead, taking the space on the carpet in front of him.  
  
“I just can’t see how Jongin could possibly—” Chanyeol winces. Frustration shows in every bit of his features. Sehun would poke fun at how extremely expressive the man’s face is if he weren’t choking on the shards of his broken heart.  
  
His head drops back on his knees, blunt bone ridges knocking against his skull, yet he doesn’t even flinch. He sounds as miserable as he feels as he shamelessly sobs into his own lap.  
  
“I really, really like him, hyung.”   
  
He feels Chanyeol’s hands clasp around his ankles, in lieu of giving him a hug, perhaps.  
  
“I know.” He tells him somberly. “In fact, I think  _everyone_  knows.” This prompts a half-hearted snort out of Sehun and Chanyeol gives his feet a gentle shake.  
  
Sehun straightens up listlessly. He rubs a hand over his face before carding it through his hair.  
  
“What am I going to do?”   
  
Just then the oven dings. Chanyeol gives his tousled hair a pat before shooting up on his feet.  
  
“I really wish I knew, Sehunnie.” He admits regretfully, then adds over his shoulder, “If you want to stay here tonight, you can.”  
  
Sehun takes a moment to ponder the offer. He hasn’t seen Jongin the whole day. No. He’s  _avoided_  him the whole day. He left the apartment ahead of Tao and Yifan that morning and returned only when he’s sure that Jongin had already gone for dance training. In the afternoon, Sehun headed out before Jongin got back, leaving a note on the table that says he’ll be over at Chanyeol’s for a  _Suits_  marathon and to not wait up for him. He also has about three or four text messages from him sitting in his inbox unanswered.  
  
“I think I should go back.” He replies, ultimately deciding that he’s done enough running for one day.  
  
He hears a grunt of acknowledgement as he gets up to leave. It’s half an hour past midnight, according to the faux antique owl clock mounted on the wall. Jongin should be home by now. His stomach flips at the thought, and he’s not even sure anymore if it’s the good kind or not.  
  
Sehun stops on his way to the front door when Chanyeol calls his name. The chef is plating Lasagna on the countertop. It smells  _divine_  and Sehun almost changes his mind about not staying over.  _Almost._  
  
“I don’t really know about these premonitions,” Chanyeol begins, brows twitching with a hint of brewing conflict, like he wishes it weren’t the case, that he could do more. He rigidly props knuckles on the countertop. The usual zeal in his large eyes is reduced by so much that it leaves an unsettling feeling in the pit of Sehun’s abdomen. Admittedly he hasn’t given any thought to the possible implication of this turn of events for Chanyeol. It’s not every day your best friend barges into your home and tells you that he just had a foreshadowing of his own death.  
  
Sehun opens his mouth to mutter an apology, but Chanyeol is already a step ahead.  
  
“I do know that Jongin is a good guy, though,” he says. “Who knows, maybe it’s false alarm?” His grin is not as wide or as cheery as it should be, but it’s there. Sehun can only nod indulgently.  
  
“Now come here and take this home with you.” The lanky chef waves a fork around the rest of the freshly baked pasta and Sehun does finally light up a little. Although he believes that his stomach is so knotted that anything he consumes right now will only give him indigestion, he draws comfort from the gesture anyway.  
  
  
  
Summer is now in close pursuit but the tail end of spring still lends a subtle coolness to the air. Sehun tugs at the hem of his light jacket, pulling it a little bit tighter around his body, but leaves the zipper undone.  
  
He thinks about Chanyeol’s words. He considers coming clean, too. Jongin will probably distance himself from him then. Sehun won’t have to avoid him or make lame excuses every time he pulls away. It’s a viable option, but one that leaves a very bad taste in his mouth. And what if Chanyeol is right? What if he drives Jongin away and it turns out to be false alarm?  
  
Sehun hears the faint sound of the television when he pushes at the door. Suspecting that Jongin might still be awake, he steels himself as he slowly breaches the entrance. He gathers no sign of movement. He quietly pads closer, stopping only when he finally spots a head of deep brown hair shining under the flickering light. Jongin’s shoulders rise and fall in time with his steady breathing. He’s curled up on his side on the couch, fast asleep.  
  
Sehun relaxes.  
  
A paper bag carrying a sealed glass container of Lasagna is gingerly deposited on the coffee table as he circles the couch, careful not to jam his feet into anything lest he makes too much noise. He kneels on the floor, sitting on the heels of his feet, all the while never tearing his gaze away from the peaceful expression on Jongin’s face. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his lungs begin to burn. It doesn’t go away even after he lets oxygen back in, though, and he thinks maybe it’s not his lungs. Maybe that’s not what’s hurting. He doesn’t dwell on it too much.  
  
For a moment he contemplates staying like this a little longer; but in the end he decides to take pity on the the man’s poor back. Sehun reaches out a hand, hesitating only for a second.  
  
“Jongin.” He gives the dancer’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Jongin, wake up.”  
  
Jongin grumbles nasally, his nose pinching, making him look and sound like a toddler. Eyelids heavy, he squints against the bright lights. At first, he looks rather miffed about being roused. But then he sees who has woken him and he starts.  
  
“You’re home.” He says blearily, voice thick with sleep, as he rubs at his eyes. “What time is it?”  
  
“Almost one in the morning.” Sehun answers guiltily and then proceeds to cluck his tongue in disapproval. “I told you not to wait up.”  
  
Jongin sputters as he pushes himself into sitting position, considerably more awake now. “I didn’t. I... was just... I was watching TV.”  
  
There’s a telltale blush dusting the man’s cheeks even as he denies it and Sehun fails to hold back his amusement.  
  
“If you say so,” he drawls, sounding entirely unconvinced, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he asks: “Have you had dinner?”  
  
“Have  _you_?” Jongin’s voice comes out choked as he stretches both arms above his head, as far as they can go.  
  
Sehun shoots him a look. “I was at  _Chanyeol’s_.” He points out dryly. Nobody ever leaves Chanyeol’s place without being fed.  
  
“Right,” he chuckles, embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. It’s really, terribly cute, Sehun thinks sorrowfully.   
  
There’s a pregnant pause as Jongin peers at him with curiosity, with lidded eyes alight with apprehension. He can’t tell if it’s because there’s something he wants to say, or because there’s something he’s waiting to hear. Perhaps both.  
  
Sehun quickly gets on his feet, slipping out from under the dancer’s scrutiny when it proves too unnerving.  
  
“Chanyeol-hyung made Lasagna. Do you want some?”  
  
Jongin blinks, apparently still not awake enough to keep up with sudden transitions. He doesn’t exactly look particularly interested in food, but he nods anyway.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Sehun takes the paper bag to the kitchen with Jongin at his heels. He can feel the dancer’s eyes on him as he collects plates and utensils from the dish rack. It’s difficult to ignore and yet that’s exactly what he does. He cuts himself a serving of Lasagna, willing the shaking of his hands to stop, but it isn't easy when Jongin is watching him so intently.  
  
“Sehun, are we okay?”  
  
He hears it, just barely, over the pulse drumming impossibly loud in his ears. But he  _does_  hear it, and he freezes.   
  
“Are we?” Jongin presses reverently, carefully, like they’re on the verge of exploding. In a way, Sehun thinks, they probably are.  
  
Sehun finally gets the guts to look up, catches the lump in the dancer’s throat bob as he swallows. Jongin waits, lips pressing tightly. The anguish in his eyes bores into Sehun’s heart and he wonders for a second if Jongin can see it on him, too.  
  
Maybe he got it wrong? Maybe Chanyeol is right? Maybe it’s false alarm? Maybe it’s okay? But what if it’s not?  
  
Clashing thoughts race in his mind, again and again until they’re overlapping, running each other over, and nothing’s making sense except the fact that Jongin is so, very close to slipping through his fingers. Now  _that_ —that is the one ugly thought that sticks, and it surprises him just how much he abhors it.  
  
The fork falls on the plate with a loud clunk. In the same second Sehun leaves his seat, pushing the chair back so abruptly it could have tipped over. The noise of wood scraping against wood pierces through the static and grates at Sehun’s ears, but at this point he doesn’t even care. Jongin’s eyes are blown-out, stunned. They follow Sehun’s movements as he flits to Jongin's side, accidentally nudging the table back a centimeter in his haste.   
  
Sehun reaches down, taking each shoulder in a firm grip. He raises one leg over Jongin’s knees, straddling his thighs, and carefully lowers himself on his lap. Jongin automatically catches him around the waist the moment he moves in. Sehun doesn't break eye contact once, not even as he feels the tips of his ears blaze. He's never been this bold around Jongin before; but he must admit that the awe-struck look he put on the man’s face is very rewarding.  
  
“We’re okay,” he answers softly, and he means it. For how long, he doesn’t know. But just for now, yes, they’re okay.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Dude, you have a lapful of me right now. What do you think?”  
  
For a second Jongin simply searches his expression without a word, fingers pressing below Sehun’s waist. And then slowly,  _slowly_  the brightest smile blooms on his face.  
  
Sehun puts up no fight when the dancer holds the back of his neck and tugs him down. Jongin kisses the way spring raps on the doors of winter; thaws everything that's frozen and breaks the dull monotony with a myriad of colors sprouting from the earth. Burning hands slip under Sehun’s shirt. His heart pounds as they slide up his sides, skittering all the way around the dip of his back, soaking his skin with heat wherever they trail. Sehun’s body archs as he involuntarily moans around Jongin's tongue—  
  
—and then he tastes nothing but wisps of smoke.  
  
Without anything to hold Sehun's weight, he falls and tumbles off the chair with a squeak.  
  
“What the fu—” He grimaces, leaning away from the side of his butt that caught his landing.  
  
In the background, he catches a dull thud. Then a yelp of pain, followed by a hiss and a string of muted expletives. He whips around in the direction of the sound and laughs when he realizes where it's coming from.  
  
Pushing up from the floor, he scuttles to Jongin's bedroom. Sure enough, he finds the dancer standing beside the bed, cradling his lower back as he bends backward to stretch it. Sehun snickers, startling Jongin who gives a miniscule jump. He can tell that Jongin teleported by accident, out of pure instinct, by the way he’s looking at him like a rabbit caught in headlights. Something like this very rarely happens when he’s fully awake. He’s always had pretty good control over himself—and that is why Sehun finds himself with a smirk on his face.  
  
“So,” Sehun leans against the doorframe, arms crossed on his chest, and teases. “Bedroom? Really?” He’s feeling a lot bolder now so he adds: "This is where you want to be the most?"  
  
Jongin glares at him and admits, equally cheeky. “The  _bed_ , actually—”  
  
The answer catches Sehun off guard. He flushes a bright pink, but he’s not backing down now.  
  
“You couldn't be more creative?” He taunts, mouth curling in a sneer. “I mean, earlier, on the chair—that might have been fun.”  
  
It’s Jongin’s turn to look surprised now, but it fades away quickly. He cocks an eyebrow, daring, like he knows he’s flirting with fire and he doesn’t mind getting burned. Sehun’s gaze travels down to his plump mouth. It curves up at one side, lower lip caught between teeth. Paired up with the glint of danger in his eyes, Sehun feels his legs turn to jelly.  
  
Jongin moves to sit on the edge of the bed. He’s leaning back on his hands as he lazily extends long legs forward, ankles hooking on the carpeted floor. He tips his head slightly to one side, hooded eyes inviting his prey. Sehun spies a growing tent in the dancer’s pants and he reminds himself to breathe.  
  
“More like  _uncomfortable_. But we can test that theory later, if you want,” offers Jongin, voice low and gravelly.  
  
Sehun hums, schooling his features into his default look of boredom.  
  
“I think you need to work on your landing, though.”  
  
“Oh my God, will you shut up and come here already?” Jongin whines, eyes rolling, annoyed, but not without a lilt of amusement in his tone.  
  
Chuckling, Sehun happily obeys.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
A splash of white assaults Sehun’s vision through what little crack he somehow creates with heavy eyelids. He senses something pinning one of his hands down. If the pressure of it hurts, he doesn’t notice it over the tight compression in his air passage. His breathing is labored and painful as he feels energy drain from his fingertips. His mind is calm even though his brain squeezes, lungs begging for more oxygen, but his heart is too weak to deliver. One full breath is all he can manage. And then his heart stops.  
  
Sehun jolts awake with a violent gasp. He’s rapidly blinking against the darkness, hands instinctively clenching soft, cotton bed sheets. He struggles to catch his breath, feels sweat bead his forehead. He tries to calm himself down, but fear springs from his very core and racks his entire body. That was worse than the first.  
  
Sehun catches a faint, sleepy, grumbling sound. A slight shift in the dip of the pillow. Warmth presses against his back, arms tightening around his abdomen, reeling him into the present. Jongin.  
  
Sehun swallows down a rock trapped in his throat. He pales, squeezing his eyes shut, as his heart plummets to his feet.  
  
He wasn’t wrong; Chanyeol was. It wasn’t false alarm the first time. And it’s not okay.

 

   
  
---


	5. Chapter 5

**v.**  
  
Sehun lies in his own bed but he doesn’t fall asleep again. It’s impossible to sleep when he can still feel a phantom compression in his throat.  
  
He doesn’t want to think about how his absence will look like to Jongin once he wakes up alone. He doesn’t want to think about what excuse to offer this time when he asks.  _If_  he asks, because Jongin is not the type to press too much.   
  
After more than an hour of waffling and tossing in bed, he flings the covers off his body, feet sliding over the edge of the cushion. He slumps there for a few moments, absently staring at the bookcase across the room. And then he spots the brown leather sleeve, spine unmarred, sticking out like a sore thumb with its nonconforming dimensions.  
  
Sehun regards it with skepticism at first, but eventually decides to take it out because,  _why not?_  It’s not like he’s got anything better to do.  
  
Illuminated by a lamp beside the bed, Sehun sits with his back against the headboard, holding the dusty notebook steady in one hand while the other flips to the first page.  
  
His mother hadn’t filled out the whole thing; not even half of it. It starts from when she first had her vision. She doesn’t say who triggers it, but she describes it very differently from the visions that Sehun has been getting. Hers seems more anarchic, more painful. True enough, it was the height of the Riot when it happened and that couldn’t have been pleasant. Sehun feels a pang of sympathy, regret, for the mother he never knew.  
  
And then there’s the bit about his father. About how she had been fascinated by what he could do and by his advocacy of Hybrids’ rights. How her older sister opposed their relationship because she did not want their family to be associated with a wind wielder.  
  
Sehun remembers his uncle talking about her once—the eldest sister who had always dreamed of working for the government. She had completely severed ties with her family, afraid that any remote connection with a Red Flag Hybrid would jeopardize her chances. They never heard from her again after that.  
  
Sehun’s mother also writes about how ecstatic they were when they discovered that they were having a baby, but at the same time afraid of what kind of life their child would have to live. She leaves him little notes, perhaps already knowing that she won’t be able to raise him herself.  
  
  
_Remember that you don’t have to be afraid when the visions come, if they do come. It won’t be easy, but these visions will lead you to where you’re meant to go. Don’t fight them._  
  
  
Sehun’s forehead wrinkles in disbelief. Don’t fight them? Don’t be afraid? Is he just supposed to sit back and wait for death to claim him and be happy about it?  
  
“Bullshit,” he mutters hotly under his breath, tossing the notebook across the bed. Sehun glares at it as it bounces off of the edge and lands on the floor. It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact reason for his anger. Perhaps there’s no _one_  reason. Maybe he just wants to  _understand_.  
  
Sehun hides his face in his hands, tries to rub off the exhaustion that has settled under his skin. He goes to pick up the diary but stops when he spots a flat thing sticking out from between the pages.  
  
Gathering the curious object, he discovers that it’s an old photograph. The background appears to be  _Hangang_ Park in  _Jamwon_. There are three people in it, two girls and one boy. He recognizes his uncle’s face easily and his mother, though he hasn’t seen many photographs of her, is hard to miss. Sehun has her eyes after all. The third face is strangely familiar to him even though he’s certain that he’s never seen her before.  
  
Or maybe he has? Just not in person? On the news, perhaps?  
  
Sehun starts, blinks.  
  
_It can’t be._  
  
He stares harder at the picture. Fumbling for his phone, he launches a mobile browser and runs a search on  _Lee Jungyeon_. Sehun pulls a portrait from the search and compares it with the photo in his other hand. The woman on the instant film is much younger; much more at ease, laid back, happy. But it’s undeniably the same person. Sehun gasps, eyes blown-out.  
  
The thing is, this woman is the head of the branch of National Intelligence that focuses on the monitoring of paranormal activity across the country—including Hybrid activity. She’s the person you hide from if you’re a Red Flag Hybrid. Which means that the one person who could possibly help him find answers is the same person he should avoid having an encounter with at all cost. The irony of it all isn’t lost on Sehun. But at this point he’s desperate enough to take the risk.  
  
He takes a screenshot of the address of Lee Jungyeon’s office and saves the photo in his gallery.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Sehun is up and dressed in sweats hours before his alarm is set to go off. He might have dozed off a few times, each only lasting half an hour at the most. He’s given up on getting any proper sleep and figures he might as well get an early start if he’s planning to head to Busan later in the day. Also to avoid running into Jongin, he hopes.  
  
That part of the plan falls through, though. Jongin is already setting the  _galbi_  down beside the rice and the _deonjang jjigae_  when Sehun steps out of his room. Judging by the dishes laid out on the table, he must have been awake for a while now, too. Sehun worries his lower lip as he approaches.  
  
“I figured you’d be up early.” Jongin’s smile is tight, his eyes tired. He doesn’t explain himself; doesn’t ask, either. “You’re just in time. Let’s eat.”  
  
Sehun's hands curl into fists as he gets a strong urge to throw himself at the other man; to touch him and taste his mouth, because he knows for a fact that it’s better than any breakfast in the world. But then the memory of what it feels like to suffocate, to gasp his last breath, comes back to him so vividly and he balks.  
  
“Sorry, I can’t today,” he says instead, barely meeting Jongin's eyes. He doesn’t miss the way the man's face falls. He looks more hurt than disappointed; as though this is more than just about breakfast. And it probably is.  
  
“Maybe when I get back?”  _Like it makes any difference_ , his mind mocks him. “I have to go.” Sehun turns to the door in a hurry, grabbing his old Nikes from the shoe cabinet on the way.  
  
“Sehun, wait.”  
  
Sehun hears the sound of wood dragging on the floor, the muted percussion of socked feet rapping on the rug. He’s slipping on his shoes when Jongin catches up to him by the doorway.  
  
“Lu Han-hyung says my apartment is ready. He says I can move back in any time.”  
  
Sehun holds his breath, uneasiness coiling in his belly. “Yeah?”  
  
Jongin gives a curt nod in reply. His gaze never lifts, as if to watch for infinitesimal shifts in Sehun’s gestures, for fissures where he can maybe try to see behind the well-positioned mask. Sehun can feel himself wavering around the edges.  
  
“Do you think,” Jongin cuts himself off. Pink tongue darts out, swipes at dry lips. His voice comes out steady. Deliberate.   
  
“Should I move back?”  
  
Sehun’s mouth jerks faintly, but nothing but a quiet breath slips out. The question sounds an awful lot like  _‘Do you want me out of your life?’_  to his ears, and the answer to that is a resounding  _‘No. Stay with me. Don’t leave.’_  
  
He doesn’t say it. Everything is so muddled. There is nothing that he’s sure of at this point, not even Jongin. It’s not his fault and Sehun knows that he’s not being fair. He reverts back to the idea of confessing everything, just coming clean. But he doesn’t know how different that is from cutting him from his life for good.   
  
Sehun swallows thickly before trying to speak again. “Yes,” he blurts out, playing at a casual tone. He averts his gaze under the guise of tying his shoes. “I think you should. I mean, it’s yours. I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t.”  
  
Several beats pass in silence. Jongin doesn’t say a word. And one can only take so long tying shoelaces.  
  
Jongin searches his expression intently the moment he looks up. Sehun doesn’t flinch. As the seconds sail by, he grasps the subtle changes. It snowballs into something heavy that settles like a rock at the bottom of his stomach. All of a sudden Jongin’s eyes aren’t so easy to read now, either.  
  
“Right,” breathes Jongin, blinking rapidly as he slowly retreats. “Okay, then. Have a nice run,” he adds with the hollowest smile Sehun has ever seen on his handsome face, and it makes him want to hurl.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
When Sehun returns to the apartment hours later, exhausted and dying for a nice shower, Lu Han is there waiting in the living room. Sehun jumps back, spitting out a curse. Lu Han hasn’t barged in like this in a while, ever since Jongin moved in. He’s made himself comfortable on a seater sofa adjacent to the long couch.   
  
Sehun is about to tell him off, maybe find a way to send him on his away without being too rude, because he really is too fucking tired for games right now. But something in the man’s stern expression tells him that he isn’t here to play.  
  
“What did you do?” He demands without preamble.  
  
Sehun bristles. “Nothing. What are you talking about?” He is genuinely confused and, frankly, rather offended by the accusation.  
  
Lu Han must have noticed because he tones down the harsh attitude and heaves a long breath. He gestures at the empty couch and Sehun complies, only because he’s too worn out to argue. He doesn’t erase the glare from his eyes, though.  
  
“Can you explain to me why Jongin is asking about cancelling his lease?”  
  
Sehun’s pulse skips, his throat suddenly parched. He didn’t see that coming. But maybe he should have.  
  
“He spoke with me earlier,” Lu Han continues when he doesn’t get an answer. “He seems to be seriously considering it. And here I thought things were going well. I was even under the impression that he was going to stay with you for good, because his apartment has been ready for weeks and yet he hasn't moved back. What happened, Sehun?”  
  
Sehun is still stuck at  _‘his apartment has been ready for weeks,’_  and he really doesn’t know what to say. It’s true that he hasn’t heard any trace of hammering or drilling noises in a while, but it in his mind that didn’t necessarily equate to Jongin moving out. Somehow when he accepted this arrangement, at the back of his mind he knew that there was a good chance that he wasn’t signing up for something temporary. Or at least he wouldn’t mind if it ended up that way. It feels like such a long time ago now.  
  
Lu Han’s sharp stare is still fixed on him, waiting for a response, and he still has no idea where to start.  
  
“I’m a seer,” he blurts out heedlessly, like that explains every unfortunate turn of events in his life.  
  
Lu Han doesn’t bat an eye.  
  
“And?” He presses, looking utterly unimpressed. Sehun’s not even surprised by the reaction anymore—or lack thereof.   
  
Taking a heavy breath, Sehun lies down on his back, stretching his legs until the tips of his toes stub against the side of the arm rest. Recounting every detail of the past days is the last thing he wants to do, but Lu Han is no doubt hell bent on getting it out of him, anyway.  
  
“You can read minds,” mouths Sehun, nearly lifeless, and flings a boneless arm over his eyes. “Read mine.”  
  
He hears Lu Han’s feet stomp on the carpet.  
  
“I'm serious, Oh Sehun.”  
  
“So am I.” And he really is, if that’s the only way to get Lu Han off his back.  
  
Sehun shuts his eyes tight as he feels the telepath breaching the borders of his consciousness. He doesn’t know what exactly it is that Lu Han is looking at, but Sehun simply filters nothing. He doesn’t have the energy to try. The door to his mind is wide open. Save for muted gasps every so often, Lu Han remains silent for the most part. It feels like hours have passed when the pressure of another presence lifts off his head.  
  
“That's...” Lu Han trails off, his tone somber. “Okay, I see the problem.”  
  
Something as simple as sitting up again proves an arduous task, but Sehun powers through, pushing on his hands and letting his weight sink into faux leather.  
  
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do—I don't know how we— _I don’t know_ , hyung.”  
  
There’s a flash of sympathy in Lu Han’s eyes as thin lips press together in a tight line. He inches forward, bending at the waist, and props forearms on his knees. He fixes the younger man with a serious look.  
  
“Sehun, has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re getting these visions for a reason? Maybe it’s like a compass of sorts? A map? Maybe they’re bringing you to where you’re supposed to go?”  
  
Sehun snorts ruefully. “Did you get that from my mother’s diary?”  
  
“What? What do you mean?” The confusion on Lu Han’s face looks too genuine to doubt.  
  
“Nothing. Forget it.” Sehun shakes his head. “A  _map_ , though? You mean to my death?” He sneers.  
  
Lu Han cards fingers through his hair as he slumps back. Only then does Sehun notice the weariness dulling the natural luster in his eyes. He almost regrets the acid laced in his tone, but Lu Han appears to take it in stride.  
  
“Everyone dies eventually, kid,” he says, perhaps a little too offhandedly. Sehun can’t be bothered to feel any outrage toward the notion, no matter how morbid it sounds, because he knows that it’s true.  
  
“Listen. I can't tell you what to do.” Lu Han sounds as dreary as he looks, though no less decisive with his words. “Cut him loose or be with him earnestly—that’s your call. But I say don’t let that inevitability get in the way of what’s going to make you both happy right now.”  
  
Sehun squirms in his seat. As nice as that sounds he can’t be as idealistic. His voice is strained as he speaks.  
  
“You’re telling me to stay with the man who could be my killer.”  
  
Lu Han bristles, mouth pursing tightly, like he’s holding back a few choice words. Gripping the arm rest firmly, he pushes himself off the seat. There’s a thoughtful look on his face as he stops to regard the younger man. He sighs, eyes turning softer. He rests a hand on Sehun’s forearm and gives it a comforting press.  
  
“I think Jongin deserves a little more credit than that, Sehun,” Lu Han says quietly before leaving him alone with his own conflicting thoughts.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Locating the National Intelligence Department headquarters is the easy part. Getting somebody to direct Sehun to the  _right_  office is the real challenge, especially without a pre-scheduled appointment to fall back on.  
  
It helps that he dressed appropriately, though—white dress shirt under a dark suit; thin, black tie; dress pants, pressed to perfection; all of which he borrowed from Chanyeol’s closet—so that he can pass for a respectable journalist on an official assignment. Other technicalities were easy enough to forge. The more important, more immediate hurdle is to look the part.  
  
And so after more persistence and charm than he cares to display on a daily basis, he finally finds himself at Lee Jungyeon’s secretary’s desk. She doesn’t appear too eager to be of assistance but Sehun isn’t deterred, not when he’s come this far. He identifies himself as Lee Junghee’s son. When he asks the high-strung-looking woman to please kindly pass this on to her boss, she glowers for a good ten seconds, but delivers the message anyway. In minutes, he’s being ushered into an empty conference room at the far end of the hall—as far away as possible from inquisitive eyes and ears.  
  
“Please take a seat, Mr. Oh. Director Lee will be with you in a minute.” The woman regards him with one last appraising look, a little more hospitable now that he’s proven himself important enough that her boss is actually willing to give him the time of day, before gently closing the door behind her.  
  
Sehun unwittingly begins to take a gander at his surroundings. The walls are a drab off-white throughout, boxing in equally impersonal furnishings. An array of chairs is impeccably stationed around the long table. It almost feels wrong to pull one out for himself lest he disturb the order, but that’s exactly what he does because it seems infinitely better than to stand around idly like an idiot.  
  
The air is cold and stale, and it makes his nerves tingle. Sehun wrings his hands nervously as he moves to take a seat. His butt barely touches the posh material when he hears the door handle turn. He shoots straight up, breath catching in his throat.  
  
The woman who steps through the gap bears a striking resemblance to his uncle Donghae—the shape of her eyes, mouth, chin. It’s a wonder he’s never noticed it before. Perhaps he’s never really  _looked_ , until now.  
  
She halts at the door the moment she sees Sehun, her eyes giving away a miniscule hint of shock, as though she’s finding that Sehun is nothing like she expected. A second later, she shuts the door, swift and with a muted quality of practiced authority. She takes a seat, easily slipping into her rightful place at the end of the table, and gestures at Sehun to do the same.  
  
She clasps her hands over the clear glass of the tabletop, expression neutral.  
  
“You’re Jungh—Lee Junghee’s son.” It isn’t a question.  
  
“Oh Sehun.” He clears his throat, tries hard to keep himself together. “I’m Oh Sehun. Director Lee.”  
  
He valiantly fights the urge to cower as Lee Jungyeon pins him with a cold, calculating stare that sends goosebumps all over his skin. And people tell him  _he’s_  cold. The woman’s expression is schooled into one that makes it impossible to tell what’s on her mind—an invaluable skill for someone of her stature.   
  
Several moments of tense silence pass. And then suddenly she cracks, just the tiniest fraction.  
  
“You look so much like your mother,” she opines softly, as if only meant for her own ears. Sehun blinks at the hint of awe in her tone.  
  
The woman seems to relax  _somewhat_ , like a weight equivalent to a pebble has fallen off of her shoulders. It’s an improvement, no matter how minute, and Sehun finds himself releasing the breath he doesn’t remember trapping in his lungs.  
  
“If I may say, it’s very bold of you to come here. Also reckless. But then again you  _are_  your parents’ offspring.”  
  
Sehun is not sure how to take that. Was that an insult or a compliment? He notes the trace of amusement in the curl of her mouth, though. Sehun elects to err on the side of caution and not say a word. It doesn’t look like she expects a reaction anyway.  
  
“So tell me.” Lee Jungyeon reclines in her chair. Her elbows are on the arm rest, posture intact, clasped hands moving to her middle. “What can I do for you, Oh Sehun?”  
  
Sehun gulps. “I have... I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.” He pauses, hesitates. This is probably, literally, the worst time to be second-guessing his decision to come here. But there he is, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t thought this through at all. There’s a reason why Lee Jungyeon left all of this behind. Why would she want anything to do with it now?  
  
Sehun shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I really don’t have anyone—I don’t know anyone else,” he splutters, visibly deflating.  
  
But then the woman only nods, holds her gaze steady, like she knows full and well that this is exactly the conversation she signed up for when she agreed to meet him.  
  
“Go on.”  
  
He supposes that’s his cue. Sehun worries his lower lip for a second, gathers his resolve back up.  
  
“Can you tell me what you know about the premonitions?”  
  
“Ah, you’ve met your trigger.”  
  
That wasn’t a question either. It’s as if she’s always a step ahead of him and, frankly, it pacifies rather than unnerves him. He’s glad that he doesn’t have to go through painstakingly trying to explain himself.  
  
“I just need to know if there is a way to reverse it. Uncle Donghae told me once that there wasn’t, but if there’s any way, any way  _at all_ —”  
  
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that there is,” she answers. “As far as I know, the manner in which it happens could change, but not the person.”  
  
Sehun’s gut sinks. He must look absolutely miserable because the Director’s expression begins to soften around the seams.  
  
“Listen, Sehun,” she says, her tone lighter than he’s ever heard it. “I recall constantly hearing that these visions are meant to propel the seer to their meant path.”  
  
And at that, Sehun loses control over his own tongue.  
  
“See, I don’t understand that. All we see is  _death_ , and if there’s no way to alter it, then how is that supposed to be remotely helpful?” There’s more, so much more that he wants to get out of his chest, but he cuts himself off, afraid that he’s gone out of line this time. He backpedals fast.  
  
“I’m sorry, Director Lee. I didn’t mean to—”  
  
The woman waves his apology away. “Like I said: you are your parents’ son. I can’t expect anything less than this kind of temper,” she quips, a look of mirthful resignation settling on her otherwise impassive features. Sehun flushes slightly, embarrassed.  
  
“I wish I could be of more help to you, Sehun. But I have to admit that I don’t understand it any more than you do.”  
  
Sehun watches her curiously. She doesn’t elaborate but it’s possible that she hasn’t come across her trigger yet. Or maybe she did not inherit the ability at all. Whatever the case, he thinks it wise not to pry.  
  
“I can tell you one thing, though,” she adds gravely. “The more you think of fighting it, the more you weave your life around avoiding the inevitable instead of accepting how your fate is entwined with your trigger’s, the worse the visions will get. You have to let it run its course.”  
  
_Let it run its course._  Sure. And wait for it to drive him crazy. He doesn’t know what prompts the visions. He doesn’t know what will make it stop, either, other than the ultimate fulfillment of it. It’s a fucking dead end.  
  
“I saw what it did to uncle Donghae.”  
  
“Then don’t be like him,” she says firmly, leaving absolutely no room for argument.  
  
Lee Jungyeon stands, planting her palms on the glass. She looks Sehun straight in the eye, as though to make sure that she gets through; that her words are burned into his mind because this could very well be the first and last time that they will ever meet like this.  
  
“Donghae was a good man, but don’t be like him. Don’t let this consume you. Just  _live_ , Sehun. Like your mother did.”  
  
Sehun feels the words wash over him like a bucket of ice-cold water. He doesn’t get to process any of it because suddenly Lee Jungyeon is in front of him with one hand outstretched. He rises to his feet, bending at the waist respectfully as he accepts the handshake, and yet all the while he barely registers that he’s moving at all. He snaps back to himself only when he hears the woman speak.  
  
“It’s very good to meet you, Oh Sehun. But I hope I never see you here again,” she says pointedly, all formalities back in place.  
  
Sehun watches her reach for the door handle. Then his mouth fires before his brain can stop it. Yet even as he calls after her, a bigger part of him doesn’t expect her to actually turn back. But then she does.  
  
Lee Jungyeon looks at him, her expression tightly closed off now. But he doesn’t fumble this time.  
  
“Do you know who my mother’s trigger was?”  
  
Sehun can swear he saw the faintest jerk of a brow. For about a microsecond, something in her eyes shifts—a flicker of surprise, maybe. It fades faster than Sehun can blink.   
  
“I do,” She says quietly. An elusive smile ghosts on her lips. “It was your father.”  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Sehun watches cities flit by through the wide spanning window of the Express. Trying to catch the view is an exercise in futility, with landscapes blurring beyond recognition and splatters of color disappearing into each other from the sheer speed. But Sehun doesn’t look away.  
  
He doesn’t know exactly how his mother lived; he never had the privilege of knowing her, except perhaps through the pages of a musty, old diary. There isn’t much that he can infer from what little glimpse it has allowed him into his mother’s thoughts. It couldn’t have been easy falling in love with your trigger— _this_  Sehun knows for a fact. And yet, now that he really looks back on it, none of what he’s read so far suggests that she had been a quitter. Or that she even remotely considered running away.   
  
_Just_  live,  _Sehun. Like your mother did._  
  
Pulse racing, he takes his phone out and the first thing he does is check the time. It’s late, but not late enough that Jongin will be done with training. In a split-second decision Sehun steps out of the station instead of hopping onto line four and making the transfer to the orange line at  _Chungmuro_  station. It’s the fastest way back home, but he’s not heading home just yet.  
  
He considers taking a cab, but then the bus that passes along the TM Ent. studio arrives at the stop faster than he can hail one. It’s unsurprisingly nearly filled to the brim with passengers. Sehun takes one look inside. Without hesitation, he swings up the steps and taps his T-money on the sensor. It’s incredible, he thinks as he squeezes into the pack, how months ago, this would have been out of the question.  
  
Luckily, majority of the passengers alight at the second stop. By the third, he gets to sit down. He looks at the time again. He’s cutting it really close.  
  
Sehun considers calling Jongin to tell him to wait. Jongin will probably ask him why he’s coming to see him when he can just wait at home. He’s asked himself the same thing, and the answer is because he’s not sure if Jongin  _will_ come home. Because he needs to tell Jongin that he’s in love with him before he loses the nerve. Because he needs to ask Jongin not to move to his own apartment, or to any other apartment, or else he’ll send out tornados to trash it so that he can’t. And because he just wants to say that he’s really sorry.  
  
What’s one more leap of faith to cap the day?  
  
Sehun pulls up Jongin’s number from his contacts and presses  _call_  before he changes his mind.  
  
It rings once, twice—and then the entire bus makes a sharp swerve, flinging his body toward the window, into which the side of his head slams hard. He vaguely catches the sound of glass breaking, of bloodcurdling screams, before he’s catapulted out of the seat by sheer force. He’s not inside the bus anymore. He knows because he’s looking at it—badly battered lump of metal that’s tipped on its roof—not far from where he’s sprawled on his side, unable to move.  
  
His senses are all hazy, like there’s a white cloud framing everything he sees. He must have broken his ribs because he can almost feel them crushing his lungs. He squints, blinking weakly. He catches the spark of fire, smoke everywhere. He tries to breathe in gasps and he chokes. It  _hurts_  so fucking  _much_. He feels himself slipping, brain squeezing painfully, and then he gets a kick of déjà vu. Except this is not a vision anymore. This is real. He would bark out a wan laugh if it weren’t so impossibly difficult to merely breathe.  
  
Sehun vaguely registers a weight in his hand. He’s still holding his phone. And then he remembers why— _Jongin_. Regret claws its way up to his chest.  
  
_Is this it?_  
  
He vaguely hears a garbled noise that oddly sounds like his name, but it’s like it’s coming from miles away. Then suddenly he feels fingers shudder against his cheek, breaking through the numbness.  
  
“Shit! Sehun, stay with me! Look at me, please!”  
  
Just fluttering his eyelids feels like trying to bench press three times his weight. He tries, though, and it’s Jongin’s face that he’s rewarded with. But then there’s no way he could have gotten here that fast in a cab.   
  
_What the hell are you doing, you brash moron_ , he wants to rage out. He coughs up blood instead.  
  
“Stay with me, Sehun, come on.” He looks to his sides furiously.  
  
Sehun can make out the shrill noise of sirens in the background, but Jongin is really all he cares to pay attention to right now. His handsome Jongin. Distraught and frantic at the moment, but handsome nevertheless. Somehow Sehun manages the faintest of smiles. Calm begins to seep through and it settles over him like a blanket, even as he feels himself shutting down fast.  
  
_So this is really it,_  he thinks. And as he looks at Jongin’s face, feels his hand holding his, he finds that it’s okay. Going like this is okay.  
  
His eyes are getting far too heavy. He doesn't fight it.

 

   
  
---


	6. Chapter 6

**vi.**  
  
The full extent of Sehun’s injuries had been enough to stop his heart. Chanyeol doesn’t go into detail because he _can’t_. Not without  _‘getting something in his eyes,’_  or some other equally lame excuse for the tears that suddenly spring on his face. Sehun takes pity, anyway, and doesn’t push it.  
  
All he knows is that he’d been so badly roughed up that Yixing could only afford to patch up the most vital damages and had to leave the rest to the doctors. At the very least it had tipped the odds to his favor. Sehun had ended up on a hospital bed unconscious for three weeks instead of the worst case scenario.  
  
Apparently it took the healer a full day to recover from that ordeal. Several weeks after he had been discharged from the hospital, Sehun offers himself up as Yixing’s personal slave for a month as a  _thank you_.  
  
“I already have Jongdae for that, though,” says Yixing with a straight face and earns himself a swat on the arm from his boyfriend, complete with a loud, whiny, “Ah, whyyyy??”  
  
The healer laughs behind a hand and pecks the pouting singer’s cheek in a bid to get back in his good graces. It works, of course, if the way Jongdae twines their fingers together seconds later is any indication. In the end, they agree that Sehun will happily continue his services as Yixing’s official taste-tester.  
  
Jongdae goes full cuddle-monster mode then, throwing an arm and a leg over the healer’s body and tucking a cheek against his shoulder like his personal pillow. Sehun rolls his eyes and mock-berates them for being gross. Jongdae glowers at him. Then suddenly he gets a glint in his eyes that only means bad news.  
  
Promptly detaching himself from an amused Yixing, Jongdae turns to the youngest, advancing with wide open arms. Sparks begin fizzing and dancing at the tips of Jongdae’s fingers. Sehun stiffens, eyeing the singer’s hands with horror because he knows by now how much that’s going to tickle.  
  
“Does Sehunnie want a hug?”  
  
“NO, HE DOES NOT.”  
  
“Oh, but he looks like he does!”  
  
Sehun couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Jongdae’s distinct laughter follows him as he quickly shuffles to the door.  
  
“Yah! Don’t forget about tonight!” The singer throws out last minute.  
  
Of course he won’t forget. Tonight will be the second time that he’s attending Up Rising’s gig. He’s been looking forward to it the whole week, but he’s not telling Jongdae that. Instead, he sticks his tongue out at him in response before closing the door behind him.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Sehun spots an extra pair of shoes lined up by the entryway of his apartment. He holds his breath, stopping in the middle of toeing off his sneakers.  
  
It takes him a second to realize that the only people in the building who would own kicks as fancy as these are Lu Han, Zitao, and Yifan. Only one of them knows his PIN by heart, though. Sehun exhales, all optimism sliding off his shoulders, resenting the weight of disappointment that settles there instead.  
  
He figures he should be used to this after being let down four times in the past month— _five_  now. All of Jongin’s belongings are gone and the second room has been reverted back to an office. He knows he should probably stop expecting him to show up.  
  
Sehun schools his expression into that of sheer disinterest when he finds Lu Han perched on the windowpane, munching on a bag of potato chips that he remembers getting two days ago.  
  
“Not Jongin this time, either—sorry,” mutters the telepath, legs swinging marginally from side to side. At least he _does_  sound a little bit remorseful.  
  
“You’re doing this on purpose,” Sehun frowns. “And you’re trespassing and stealing,” he adds as he flops on the couch, careful not to repeat the mistake of putting too much pressure on his left side.  
  
Lu Han bristles, pointing an accusatory piece of potato chip at him.  
  
“May I remind you that I  _own_  this building and that you’re supposed to be cutting back on junk food anyway. I’m just checking if you’re healing alright, you ungrateful Hybrid.”  
  
Sehun chuckles lightly, fluffing the pillow under his head while stretching his legs across the length of the cushion, knees dangling over the arm rest.  
  
“Who told you—Yixing-hyung or Jongdae-hyung?”  
  
Lu Han stops mid-crunch, looking much like a deer caught in proverbial headlights. He blinks rapidly then grins, as if he’s getting a kick out of being the one someone else reads for a change.  
  
“Chanyeol, actually. Who heard from Baekhyun who heard from Tao who heard from Minseok.”  
  
Sehun snorts. Well, that was quick—though he should have probably expected nothing less, considering how everyone has seemed so protective of him lately. It’s not that big of a deal—just an accident at his employer’s main office that involved a swinging door and him whacking into it. The tender area in his left side, where stitches used to be just a week prior, took the brunt of impact. He was on his way out then, having dropped by for a brief interview with the Big Boss for possible promotion. He did stop by the cafe on the way home, but he doesn’t recall mentioning anything about his little mishap.  
  
“How perceptive,” hums Sehun around a yawn, eyelids getting droopy. He hears Lu Han hop down from the window, padding closer.  
  
“Minseok said your face was contorted into a permanent wince. You’re easier to read than you think.”  
  
Sehun’s face twitches at that. He’s heard the same before. It reminds him of clear skies as a cool breeze combs through his scalp; warm sunlight pressing on his face; the prickle of grass blades against bare, sweaty skin; a low voice; an uneven smile—  
  
Then he feels his shirt hiking up and his eyes snap open. He flails about on instinct, swatting intrusive fingers away with a shriek. Lu Han staggers back and falls into the seater, braying with laughter as he hugs the bag of chips to his chest.  
  
“Sorry! Sorry! I just wanted to see if you’re really okay,” heaves the telepath while trying to catch his breath.  
  
Sehun gives him a dirty look as he readjusts his shirt, but they both know he’s not really mad. He’s never  _really_ mad at Lu Han, even though he can be weird and unbearably annoying.  
  
“I’m fine,” Sehun blurts out sulkily. “Yixing-hyung fixed me up. I was there just now, actually. Jongdae-hyung chased me away.”  
  
Lu Han hums knowingly. “The Lightning Hug?”  
  
The younger nods in affirmation, dejected, and the telepath snickers.  
  
“You poor thing.”  
  
Sehun stares at him intently then. Lu Han isn’t inside his head, but he stops at the look on Sehun’s face, his own going stern, as if he knows  _exactly_  what’s coming next.  
  
“If you really want to make me feel better—”  
  
“No,” Lu Han pointedly cuts him off.  
  
Sehun’s face crumples.   
  
“ _Hyuuung…_ ”  
  
Lu Han gives him a hard look. “ _Jongin told me to tell you_  that I don’t know his new number, so that’s what I’m telling you.”  
  
Sehun hates that he can’t be properly upset at Lu Han, because he doesn’t even bother to properly lie.  
  
“I can always stalk him in Busan, you know,” he says with squinty eyes, crossing his arms on his chest petulantly.  
  
At that, Lu Han scoffs, “Don’t waste your time. He’s on tour with Taemin, you know that.” He pops a chip into his mouth.  
  
Sehun  _does_  know that. He knows that they’re in Osaka now and that Jongin has been filling in for another dancer who tore his ACL after a bad fall during a show in Shanghai. He’s been keeping up with concert dates and fancams. It’s all he can do because Jongin doesn’t have a single social media account. E-mail, sure, but he hasn’t had any luck with the last three messages that he sent weeks ago.  
  
Sehun groans. A hand comes up to rake through his hair but ends up grabbing a fistful of it instead.  
  
“Can you at least tell me when he’s planning to quit avoiding me?” He doesn’t bother veiling the despair in his tone.  
  
“Just give it time, Sehunah. It couldn’t have been easy for him, finding out.”  
  
Sehun emits a pathetic, grumbling noise deep in his throat. It’s not the first time he mentally flagellates himself for being a cluttered idiot who leaves extremely incriminating evidence lying around for his unsuspecting flatmate to find, instead of neatly slipping it back into the book case.   
  
“Why did you have to tell him everything? Couldn’t you have just lied and told him that it wasn’t what he thought—”  
  
It’s his fault. He knows it’s his fault, and he doesn’t mean to pin the blame on other people, especially not on his closest friends, but the words are out before he can stop them. Lu Han pauses, looks at him like he’s just been violently shoved.  
  
“Sehun, seriously? Jongin knows more about seers than Chanyeol and I combined. In fact, he looked like he already knew the answer even before he came to us with the question.”  
  
Guilt slowly gnaws at Sehun at the flash of mild hurt in Lu Han’s eyes. He can tell that Lu Han doesn’t at all take kindly to being accused of throwing a friend under the bus, because even Sehun himself knows for a fact that he would be the last person to do that. He really doesn’t know why he even insinuated.  
  
“I know, hyung, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” he says softly, unable to meet Lu Han’s eyes. He gingerly sits up, spine against the back rest.  
  
“I just,” he chokes on a lump in his throat. “I wish he’d talk to me.”  
  
A beat passes in silence, and then he feels the sudden dip and bounce of the sofa as Lu Han dumps his weight next to him. He doesn’t recoil or bat him away this time when the telepath reaches up to ruffle his mop like he’s ten and not the grown man that he is.  
  
“I understand,” says Lu Han, pressing fingers on the back of his neck in a gentle massage, as if to assure him that they’re okay.  
  
“Jongin is terrified for himself, but more so for  _you_. That’s why he’s trying to stay away, for now.”  
  
Sure, Sehun knows that much. He doesn’t like it, but he  _gets_  it. It takes another second but as he fully registers what Lu Han just said, his head snaps to his side. He gives him a curious look.  
  
“ _For now_?”  
  
“Well, if your vision is as on point as you say,” Lu Han shrugs. “Then Jongin’s not getting away that fast—which is kind of a funny thought, because he  _is_  a teleporter.”  
  
Sehun gives that some thought and nods. That may be right but it guarantees nothing, really.  
  
“But, Sehunnie,” Lu Han halts, and the weight in his tone has Sehun glancing his way. “Are you sure... I mean, are you  _really_  sure? I understand why anyone would freak out. Heck,  _I_  did. You know I’m rooting for your happiness—both you and Jongin, individually—but I understand that this is very complicated—“  
  
Lu Han looks like he’s having a tough time trying to get his point across and Sehun decides to spare him. He cuts him off with a shake of his head, his eyes calm.   
  
“Hey, everyone dies eventually, right?”  
  
“Well... yeah, I know, but—”  
  
Sehun’s gaze drops to the nervously fiddling hands resting on his lap. “You know, the last person I saw was Jongin and I remember thinking that  _that_  was it. The premonition—it felt just like that. I couldn’t breathe. I was sure I was going to die there in his arms, and his face was the last I would ever see, his voice the last I would hear, and his hand the last I would ever touch.”  
  
The smile that tugs at his lips should feel out of place in this whole conversation, but it doesn’t.  
  
“And you know what? I kind of didn’t mind.” He admits with quiet certainty. It’s a bit awkward and he knows that it’s unlike him to say things like this, but he doesn’t downplay the truth in his words.   
  
Several moments pass with the air standing still, and for a second he thinks Lu Han might have fallen asleep on him. But when he lifts his head, he finds the telepath staring at him, positively beaming.  
  
“God, you  _sap_!” Lu Han lands a hard slap on Sehun’s knee. He shrinks back with a yelp then immediately retaliates by digging an elbow in the older’s chest.  
  
“Shut up, you asked for it.”  
  
Sehun fiercely shields the left side of his torso with a small pillow when Lu Han abruptly shifts like he’s going to attack back. He seems to reconsider at the last moment and slumps into the backrest instead.  
  
“Looks like you’ve got it all figured out.” Lu Han picks up the bag of junk food that somehow found itself lying haphazardly on the end table.  
  
“I don’t—I’m winging it,” says Sehun, slipping a hand in the crinkly foil to grab a few pieces when the telepath tilts the gaping mouth in his direction. He breathes out, long and labored, and sluggishly tosses a potato chip in his mouth.  
  
“I wish he’d make this a little easier and speak to me.”  
  
Lu Han lightly bumps the back of his hand to the side of Sehun’s face.  
  
“Hey, you’ve gotten this far—just wait, Sehunah,” says the telepath, lips stretching in a smile. “Wait for him. He’ll come around.”  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Sehun does wait.  
  
Shortly after his interview, he gets promoted to senior content design manager. He had been up for promotion since a year ago but he hadn’t been prepared to give up the comfort zone that working from home had become. No doubt he’s come a long way since then.  
  
As the weeks pass, his workload gets heavier. Even when he loses track of Jongin’s schedule and falls behind on fancam updates, he still waits. Weeks turn to months, and summer eventually gives way to much cooler afternoons. Sehun doesn’t get a vision once in all that time, and gradually thoughts of Jongin are put on the back burner. It never goes away completely, just gets a little bit quiet.  
  
By the time Chuseok rolls in, Sehun is up to his eyeballs in work. Between enhancement proposals, deployment, and testing of system updates, he can’t afford to take a single day off.  
  
A pen absently twirls in his fingers while his other knuckle is pressed to his cheek, propped up on an elbow. He’s vaguely aware that it’s around dinner time now. He pushes that thought aside in favor of focusing on glaring at the problematic codes flashing on the monitor.  
  
As if he doesn’t have enough on his plate, his phone starts buzzing non-stop beside the keyboard. He ignores it the first two times. By the third, he can make a guess—it’s either Chanyeol or Baekhyun, because neither one of those two can take a hint. Sehun grudgingly checks the ID, ready to hurl the phone to the ground in irritation, but halts at the name that registers on the screen.  
  
‘The Annoying Deer,’ it reads. Sehun blinks. Lu Han is actually using a  _phone_  to contact him. He decides to accept the call on account of this being a notable event.   
  
“Lu Han-hyung, what?” He withholds the warm reception, though.  
  
“Sehunah, can you try to make it? I need help with the ventilation.”   
  
_What ventilation?_  He doesn’t ask because he really has no time for this.  
  
In the background he can easily pick up the distant sound of Jongdae’s howl of laughter, Baekhyun’s shriek, and Chanyeol’s enraged bellow of:  _“I am fucking getting new friends!”_  Sehun reclines in his chair, torn between laughing out loud and crying over all the fun he’s missing out on.  
  
“Hyung, you have ten other people there—”  
  
“Yes, but you’re the only one who’s  _excellent_  with air...  _manipulation_  and shit.”  
  
“But I can’t—”  
  
“Come on, Sehunnie, our cute baby  _maknae_ , please?”  
  
“Hyung, I have a deadline—”  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, can’t you just do as I say for once? You’re ruining the surprise! Jongin is here, okay—hurry up and get your ass down here  _now_.”  
  
  
  
Sehun doesn’t even shut down his computer—just grabs his jacket and bolts out of the building like his ass is on fire. Bursting out of the main entrance, he lucks out and spots a cab that’s just about to pull out of the driveway. He skids to a halt, both hands rapping on the back seat window to get the driver’s attention.  
  
His brain vacillates between reeling in excitement over seeing Jongin again and freaking out about what he should say once he does. Should he be mad at him for disappearing without a word? For staying away all this time and denying any possibility of contact with him?  
  
Before that, though, he should probably thank him for risking everything to save his life. Jongin never gave him a chance to do so in person so he had to resort to emails and text messages that he never did get any replies to. Who knows if Jongin read them at all?  
  
Maybe he was too busy or exhausted while on tour— _oh,_  and his  _back_!  
  
Jongin gets terrible muscle spasms in the vicinity of his lumbar curve when he overexerts himself—which he does _all the time_  being a very stubborn man, but some days are worse than others. Sehun recalls the first time that he teleported home one day, hardly able to straighten to full height. Sehun stacked up on a variety of compresses ever since as it apparently helps ease the discomfort. He still has them tucked away in a cabinet somewhere.  
  
In spite of that, Jongin’s routines are always complex and involve a lot of breakneck twisting, because he’s not the type to go easy on himself. He really hopes his back hasn’t been acting up lately.  
  
Thing is, Sehun’s destination isn’t at all far from the office and he arrives there faster than he can decide on an opener. He figures it doesn’t matter and sprints to the top floor where everyone is supposedly huddled in Lu Han’s penthouse for Chuseok dinner. Sehun presses the buzzer, clammy fingers curling and uncurling at his sides as he waits for the door to open.  
  
“You’re too late,” is the first thing that Lu Han tells him through a crack in the door.  
  
Sehun freezes, holding back on his reaction and hoping that there’s a punch line there somewhere. There’s none. He doesn’t move even when the telepath extends the gap to let him slip inside. Sighing, Lu Han steps out instead, closing the door behind him slowly.  
  
“Jongin left. I didn’t even hear the door. Or maybe be didn’t use the door.” Lu Han pulls a long face, grumbling. “Didn’t even say bye, that insolent brat. I’m telling him to learn some fucking manners the next time I see him.”  
  
Sehun feels something  _break_ —it simmers, prickly under his skin. His shoulders cave in, the overlapping anxiety and fervor from earlier rolling off with a slow drag of air. It leaves him feeling kind of hollow, and maybe a little foolish. This, he thinks, is the problem with chasing a teleporter.  
  
“Well, since you’re here—join us for dinner?” offers the older and Sehun’s burgeoning hunger almost makes him say yes. But then again...  
  
“Maybe later,” he manages a weak smile. “I left some really important work hanging. But thanks, hyung.”  
  
Luckily Lu Han doesn’t force the issue.  
  
“You look like shit, by the way.” He lightly sweeps a few errant strands away from the younger’s eyes. “Stop working yourself to the ground and get some rest,” chides the telepath, eyeing the dark circles on his face with disapproval before going back inside.  
  
Sehun refuses to wallow in despair. He got through months without seeing the guy; what’s a few more days? At least now he knows that the tour is finished, that Jongin is free and back in town. That's one less hurdle to jump over.  
  
He contemplates heading back to the office, but what a waste of cab fare that would be. It’s possible to work remotely from home, anyway, although he will have to make do with limited access and significantly less resources. Ultimately he decides that he doesn’t care. It’s getting late, he’s hungry, and he really doesn’t feel like being cooped up inside the office at this point.  
  
He takes the elevator down to his floor and ambles lazily across the length of the hall. Stopping in front of his unit, he absently reaches for the security device so that he can key in the PIN. But before his finger can graze the stainless steel, the door swings open, knocking Sehun back half a step in surprise.  
  
There’s an audible gasp, and then he looks up to find himself staring at an equally wide-eyed familiar face.  
  
“Sehun,” Jongin’s voice is tight, clipped.  
  
Pulse suddenly racing, Sehun is quick to get over the shock—way faster than Jongin does. He takes advantage of the man’s stupefied state and makes a grab for his elbow.  
  
“ _Hey_ , what—”  
  
Sehun wordlessly pushes into his personal space, forcing him to retreat back into the apartment, all the while making certain that the teleporter stays solid in his hold.  
  
They stand there under the soft lighting of the cramped doorway, between a cold white wall and a shoe cabinet—which makes for the most unromantic reunion, to be honest—and Sehun finds himself struck by the realization that Jongin makes a fucking gorgeous  _blond_.  
  
He doesn't actually voice out this comment. In fact, nobody breathes another word. There’s some consolation in the fact that Jongin doesn't shrug him off nor push him away, probably too disconcerted to make such decisions and actually get his body to follow. Sehun knows because his own fingers refuse to uncurl around the other man's arm despite orders from his brain.  
  
Jongin looks like he wants to say something, then uncertainty flits over his eyes and his mouth clamps shut. The tension is palpable; panic emanates from Jongin's every pore—from the way color leaves his face, the faint tremble on his skin, the fright in his blown-out irises. He seems to be on the brink of vanishing and Sehun knows that he can’t really stop him. Now it’s  _his_  turn to panic.  
  
"Have you had dinner?" he blurts out without thinking—out of all the things that he could have possibly started with—and cringes internally.  
  
Jongin looks totally nonplussed, brows twitching in a way that Sehun recognizes as a sign of amusement. He takes it as permission to relax, just a little.  
  
“Have  _you_?” Jongin asks back.  
  
Sehun blinks, finding the flow of conversation awfully familiar. Before he can say anything, his stomach makes a low, grumbling sound in response. Sehun inwardly groans in embarrassment. It cracks a small smile out of the other man, though, so maybe it’s not so bad.  
  
Jongin studies him for a moment. Lu Han’s voice going  _‘you look like shit’_  echoes loud and clear in his mind, making him self-consciously shrink back a bit. He’s not surprised when he sees a light of worry flicker across Jongin’s face.  
  
“You’re impossible,” says the teleporter under his breath, shaking his head in forfeit.  
  
He doesn’t quite remove Sehun’s hold on his arm as much as he naturally slips out of it as he turns and heads back inside, straight to the kitchen.  
  
  
  
“When was the last time you shopped?”  
  
It’s like falling back into old routine. Jongin wastes no time in rummaging through overhead cupboards, grumbling unhappily to himself every now and then when he finds nothing useful. Sehun watches him from where he’s perched on his forearms, slouching on the other side of the kitchen island.  
  
He should probably feel some shame but it’s hard to register anything else over the contentment that thrums steadily in his veins. He drinks in the sight of Jongin navigating  _his_  kitchen—critiquing his life choices too while he’s at it, but he can’t really complain about that.  
  
“You literally have nothing but cheese and eggs around here.” Jongin bends at the waist to inspect the contents of the fridge. Sehun knows what he’s going to find there and he braces himself for more violent reactions.  
  
“And  _beer_?”  _There you go_. He almost flinches at the dark look that Jongin throws his way. "Why do you have  _beer_ and  _no real food_ , Oh Sehun?”  
  
“I haven’t shopped in about two weeks,” he reasons, pushing off of the countertop. But Jongin is still frowning and Sehun wavers. “I have kimchi ramen in stock, though? And Nutella?”  
  
Jongin’s scowl dips, his eyebrow hiking up in a manner that’s basically Jongin-speak for  _‘you have got to be fucking kidding me.’_  
  
“I was gonna shop this weekend—if time permits,” he tries again, though his voice pretty much loses confidence toward the end. Jongin pins him with a hard, judging stare, and this time he does turn a bit sheepish under the weight of it.  
  
Heaving a suffering sigh, Jongin turns to grab a pot. Of course they could just go back to Lu Han’s, where there is surely a ton of food ready. Sehun doesn’t bring it up because he’d rather have  _this_ —Jongin in his home, in his kitchen, all to himself. It doesn’t escape his attention that Jongin makes no mention of it either.  
  
Jongin pulls up the sleeves of his black shirt and reaches into one of the cupboards for a packet of instant ramen. Sehun could make the ramen himself—it’s practically just a matter of boiling some water—but Jongin seems to like doing this.  
  
“You dyed your hair,” he mouths quietly as Jongin starts up the heater to get the pot to boil. The man turns back to him, startled at first, then ducks his head, bashfully tousling his shiny, blond mop. It makes Sehun smile.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“It looks good.” It really does. It contrasts nicely to the adorable pink that now lightly tints his cheeks. “You look good.”  
  
Jongin leans back, hands holding the edge of the countertop. The space between them is so easy to cross, if not for the island in the middle. Sehun thinks it’s just as well because it’s hard enough trying not launch himself at the man.  
  
“How have you been, Sehun?”  
  
“Lu Han hyung says I look like shit,” he deadpans.  
  
Jongin chuckles lightly at that and something inside Sehun leaps at the sound.  
  
“You do,” agrees Jongin. Sehun pouts, feigning offense, and it paints a teasing smile on the other man’s handsome face. Sehun averts his gaze then because his insides are starting to feel like molten lava.  
  
“I heard about your promotion, by the way. Congratulations.” The way Jongin says it tells Sehun that he knows there’s more to it than just a step up the ranks; that it’s also him breaking out of the confines of his fears. And it is.  
  
“Thanks.” Sehun glances up, locking his gaze with Jongin’s. “And thank you for saving my life.”  
  
Jongin stiffens at that, mirth fading from his eyes. And for a second Sehun is confused.  
  
“Yixing-hyung did that. Not me.”  
  
“No—you got me out of there, Jongin. That was  _you_ ,” Sehun contends, fixing him with a resolute stare.  
  
“Well, don’t thank me yet,” Jongin mutters lowly with a rueful smirk. He quickly turns back to the pot and occupies himself with preparing the contents of the packet of instant ramen. His shoulders are squared, movements sharp and busy, as if to say he doesn’t want to discuss it right now.  
  
And so Sehun doesn’t say another word. At least until the water boils.  
  
“Can we talk about it now?” Sehun asks later as Jongin sets the hot pot on the countertop.  
  
Jongin doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps away to pull on a drawer near the sink.  
  
“Hey, get two. Eat with me.”  
  
“I don’t think there’s enough for two people,” he points out, but takes two pairs of metal chopsticks anyway. Perhaps because he knows that Sehun will only insist and refuse to let it go.  
  
Jongin sets one pair on the pot lid, angled toward Sehun, while keeping his gaze on the steaming broth, refusing to make eye contact.  
  
“Can we talk now?” Sehun asks again. This time, Jongin puffs out in resignation and sets his chopsticks down on the lid as well.  
  
“What is there to talk about?”  
  
“I don’t want you to move away,” Sehun gets right to it. No hesitation.  
  
Jongin seems surprised—though Sehun can’t quite tell if it’s because of the uncharacteristic candidness or the confession itself.  
  
“Last time we spoke you wanted me out of here.”  
  
Sehun pauses. It’s true. He remembers. He swallows hard, rubbing both hands on his tired face. Exhaustion must be radiating off of him in droves and he’s barely keeping himself from tearing at the seams. Maybe that’s why Jongin is still here.  
  
“Jongin, you know why—”  
  
“Exactly,” he says. “It’s not that simple, Sehun. Not with all of...  _this_  hanging over our heads.”  
  
“I know it’s not. But look, do you remember my uncle? He was executed for murder—the man he killed was his trigger. And my mother—well, she married hers.”  
  
Jongin looks at him, unblinking, mouth slightly agape. Sehun knows that this is all news to him. Before now, all he knew was that Sehun had been raised by an uncle who died in prison. And he never mentioned anything about his mother to him until now. Jongin looks like he wants to say something but can’t find the words.  
  
“It’s a different story for everyone,” Sehun says, filling the pregnant silence. “Maybe... maybe it’s worth a shot?”  
  
Jongin is staring at the steam rising from the pot again. His expression is carefully restrained, but Sehun can tell that he’s on the verge of cracking, too. He takes a chance. Jongin’s head snaps up, startled, as Sehun takes big strides around the island until he’s standing in front of the other man, slightly towering.  
  
Jongin goes rigid, but he doesn’t step back—as if to challenge him, to test exactly how well Sehun can decipher nuances and identify his boundaries. But Sehun is too impatient for that. He defiantly pushes into Jongin’s space, cutting the distance between them to mere inches, until his own rapid heartbeat is telling him that he’s too close for comfort. Jongin takes to dipping his head, and Sehun fights the urge to lean in and press his nose to the man’s crown.  
  
“Listen. I have no idea what our story is going to be,” he says softly, boldly taking Jongin’s hands in his own. “But I really want to find out.”  
  
Jongin is the one who pries his hands free, only to press their palms together, fingers easily threading along the gaps like they’ve always belonged there. Sehun has missed this so much it takes his breath away.  
  
“If I  _hurt_  you—if anything happens to you because of  _me_ —” Jongin cuts himself off, shakes his head like he’s trying to vanquish the thought. His voice is quiet,  _raw_ , and Sehun almost winces at how roughly it grates.  
  
“Likewise,” he mutters, because Jongin needs to realize that the risk goes both ways and that Sehun is willing to take it.  
  
Suddenly Jongin is stepping back. Sehun tightens his hold when he feels the man letting go.  
  
“I don’t know, Sehun,” he sighs, tired and heavy, as Jongin looks up at him reluctantly. “ _I don’t know_.”  
  
“Well, at least think about it.” It doesn’t quite come out sounding like a request, with the frustrated anguish clear in the lilt of his voice and the creases on his forehead. “Please?” He doesn’t even care if he sounds childish and whiny. And he wouldn’t take it back either because the next second, Jongin is quickly tugging him closer and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.  
  
“Ramen’s getting cold, you spoiled brat,” he says when he pulls away. Sehun wants more so badly, but he decides not to push his luck this time.  
  
“You’ll think about it, right?” He presses again minutes later, while they’re in the middle of a fierce chopsticks battle over noodles.  
  
Jongin flicks him a glance, shrugs, and emits a noncommittal grunt. Several beats later, perhaps when Jongin thinks that Sehun isn’t looking anymore, he furtively tries to steal another glimpse, only to be caught red handed because Sehun most definitely still has his eyes on him.  
  
Sehun chuckles at Jongin’s look of surprise. Jongin shakes his head, his own mouth pulling up a tiny fraction at the corners.  
  
Sehun totally reads that as a  _yes_.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Four days later, Sehun hears from Chanyeol that Jongin is moving into  _Junmyeon’s_  building. This gets him wondering because although he doesn’t expect Jongin to move back in with him—not yet, anyway—why not reclaim his original apartment instead? He doesn’t have Jongin’s number yet and so he resorts to asking Lu Han if he has, by any chance, recruited anyone new.  
  
“No—I was actually reserving that flat for Jongin in case he still wanted it after the tour was over.” Lu Han tells him over a cup of Americano one morning. “He didn’t explicitly say why he’s moving to Junmyeon’s building, but I think it’s obvious? He’s trying to feel his way around this...  _thing_  that he has with you. Baby steps, you know?”  
  
Sehun pauses thoughtfully and takes a sip of his dark mocha, careful not to get a single drop on his pristine dress shirt. He couldn’t keep his coat on because it’s much warmer inside the café than outside where he used to station himself usually. He’s vaguely aware that he’s gone past the fifteen-minute window allotted for morning breaks, but he honestly doesn’t give two shits. He  _did_  work through Chuseok holiday, anyway. He can slack off every once in a while.  
  
Sehun watches the swirling fog that escapes from the opening on the lid. He quietly considers Lu Han’s words, fingers abstractedly tapping around the holder. He supposes it makes sense. Just the fact that Jongin is trying is enough.  
  
“Baby steps,” he echoes, hope blooming hot in his chest as he hides a small smile behind his cardboard cup.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Friday night happens to be a particularly hectic day at the office for Sehun, and he doesn’t get out of work until ten minutes before Up Rising’s set is scheduled to start. He makes a run for it, going through calculations in his head in hopes of arriving at a possible way to get from  _Gangnam-gu_  Office to  _Hongdae_  in less than ten minutes. Despite leaving nothing unturned, he comes up empty-handed. It’s over thirty minutes away by subway and with the kind of hellish traffic at this hour, taking on the roads is out of the question. Sehun swallows down a pained whimper.  
  
“Ah, fuck it.”  
  
Subway, it is. Maybe they won’t notice that he’s late if he’s really quiet and slinks in really carefu—  
  
“Hey, Oh Sehun!”  
  
Poised to take a sharp right toward where the nearest station is, he brakes so fast his soles could have left skid marks on the ground. He spins around, head darting left, right, and back. He spies hints of jerky movements in his peripheral and he stops.  
  
Sehun holds his breath, squints as he takes short, tentative steps toward the corner of the building where a tree and a singular lamppost are rooted. And then a figure of a man steps halfway out of the shadow. The bill of a black snap back conceals half of the stranger’s face—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t recognize that shapely mouth, pulled into a crooked curve. Sehun grins, awash with relief. It kind of reminds him of the first time they met.  
  
“Hey—what are you doing here?”  
  
Jongin tips back his cap just enough so that Sehun can see his eyes.  
  
“You can’t get to  _Hongdae_  in five minutes any other way,” he says simply.  
  
_Oh_ , Sehun blinks.  
  
_OH!_  
  
A dramatic gasp has his eyes expanding into saucers, and he does a little excited-bunny-hop, feet-shuffling thing that makes Jongin throw his head back in soundless laughter. Sehun makes a cursory inspection of his surroundings before scuttling to join the teleporter in the shadows.  
  
“What do I do?”  
  
“Uhh,” Jongin scratches the side of his neck nervously, looking anywhere but at him. “Hold on tight, I guess?”  
  
Sehun is only happy to oblige, the distance between them tapering with every slow, deliberate step. He catches Jongin’s Adam’s apple bob. Sehun bites his lower lip to try to keep the grin from splitting his face as tendrils of satisfaction coil around his stomach. He means to drape his arms around Jongin’s shoulders but ends up giving in to impulse—he plucks the cap off of Jongin’s head, turning it around to get the bill out of the way. And then he cups his cheeks.  
  
Jongin’s hands snap up to attach themselves to either side of Sehun’s hips. Sehun’s heart stills for a second, almost prepares to either be pushed away or be locked in place so he doesn’t get any closer. But Jongin does neither. Sehun dares take a small step forward and meets no opposition even as their hips lightly brush. His heart does a little dumb, excited-bunny-hop shuffle, too.  
  
“My savior,” he whispers playfully, which has Jongin eye-rolling in response. He’s smiling bashfully, though, and it’s so pretty that Sehun decides that he really doesn’t mind being lame as fuck if this is what he gets in return.  
  
“Quit it or I’m leaving you behind,” Jongin hisses, though there’s barely any real venom in his tone.  
  
Giggling lightly, Sehun’s hands skim Jongin’s sides to snake around his torso, slender fingers clenching around the soft material of Jongin’s warm hoodie. He feels Jongin clasp his hands over the small of his back and he buries his face in the crook of the dancer’s neck. Chest flush against chest now, Sehun faintly registers Jongin’s racing heartbeat matching his own. He smiles a bit at that, glad that he’s not the only one.  
  
“Up, up, and away.”  
  
Jongin snorts, “I don’t  _fly_ , you idiot.”  
  
Sehun has a retort ready on the tip of his tongue. But then he senses a shot of prickling heat lancing through his body, as if breaking him apart atom by atom. And then in a flash, they’re gone.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Sehun can be extremely obstinate when he really wants to be. He puts this tendency into action the day Jongin moves in to his new apartment, two blocks away from Sehun, on a late Saturday afternoon. He’s present and ready to offer his assistance even without the dancer asking for it. If he’s being completely honest, it’s also a convenient excuse to keep hanging around Jongin’s place.  
  
His new neighbors drop by throughout the day to say hello, but they don’t stay long. Sehun secretly thanks his luck for his friends’ exceptional perceptiveness today. Though to be fair, a lot of those reasons are probably legitimate, with the exception of Baekhyun’s  _“Oh, I forgot! I, uh, need to buy cat food. Must save kitty from starvation! Haha,”_  when he doesn’t even own a cat. From the way Jongin’s brow hikes up, Sehun can tell that he knows this too.  
  
“For the record: I didn’t put them up to this. I swear I didn’t tell them to say that,” Sehun declares after they watch Baekhyun close the door behind him as he scurries out.  
  
Jongin looks askance at him. “I should hope so. That was terrible.”  
  
“I don’t even know what to say,” Sehun agrees with an incredulous expression on his face and Jongin cackles.  
  
  
  
“Why are you even unpacking everything?” Sehun says as he chews on crispy fried chicken skin.  
  
It’s nine in the evening and they’ve managed to sort through nearly half of the dancer’s stuff. The whole process would have gone faster if Sehun did less sitting around while lazily sifting through Jongin’s newly amassed Blu-ray disc collection and more real work. Jongin doesn’t reprimand him for being more of a distraction than actual help, though; just pouts like a petulant child and heaves a long sigh. To appease the man, Sehun orders chicken for them both and pays for it, too. Works like magic.  
  
Jongin, sitting cross-legged beside him on the couch, gives him an odd look.  
  
“I mean, you’re going to be moving out again soon enough,” Sehun shrugs, expression blank.  
  
Jongin cocks an eyebrow at him. “A little presumptuous?”  
  
“What can I say, I’m an optimist.”  
  
Jongin snorts, head shaking in forfeit. He chucks a clean bone into a plastic bag where it joins the rest of its kind and holds it up to Sehun so he can do the same.  
  
“Well, Mr. Optimist,” says Jongin in a mock-grim tone as he unfurls his legs while tying up the plastic with greasy fingers. “If you’re not going to be useful here then you might as well just go home. It’s getting late.”  
  
Sehun watches Jongin get up and pad away from the couch, all the while trying not to blurt out  _“but home is wherever you are,”_  or something equally theatric and cheesy. He exhales dramatically instead and follows Jongin to the sink so that he can wash his hands. He makes sure to get some water on the dancer when he wrings his fingers, and chortles when Jongin glares at him.  
  
“You’re so cute,” Sehun unabashedly comments as he uses his sleeve to wipe Jongin’s nose dry.  
  
“You’re a fucking menace,” mumbles the dancer darkly, yet he doesn’t stop a grinning Sehun from attempting to clean up his face, only to make a bigger mess by smearing the suds onto dry spots.  
  
Sehun does leave after a while. Jongin’s looking pretty tired. And though Sehun’s not quite up to trudging through the chilly night, he figures asking if he can sleep over might be pushing it too far.  
  
But he comes back the next day. And the next. And the day after that.  
  
With Sehun’s workload, Jongin’s day normally ends way ahead of his. Most days he goes straight to Jongin’s place; sometimes with food, sometimes  _asking_  if Jongin has food—which he always does because he’s not quite as flighty and disorganized as Sehun is, admittedly.  
  
Some days he finds Jongin with a certain drag in his gait and Sehun immediately takes over, all hunger and exhaustion forgotten. Jongin tries not to make a big deal of it because it always goes away after he takes it easy for a while—though not before he has to suffer through the worst. And so Sehun helps him to bed, makes sure he’s got topical pain relieving gel applied evenly over his lower back, and sometimes tidies up a little because he knows how messy places bother the other man. Jongin always tries to protest but Sehun is just as stubborn as he is, if not more.  
  
Sehun does end up unintentionally falling asleep on Jongin’s couch a couple of times. Jongin probably takes pity and decides against waking him up every time it does happen. He’s always up before Jongin is the following day, and makes a mad dash back to his apartment, muttering expletives under his breath when he stubs his toes into random things in his haste. By some miracle he always manages to make it to work on time.  
  
Everything comes to a head nearly two weeks into this pseudo-routine.  
  
Sehun comes over with two servings of  _jajangmyeon_  takeout. The moment the dancer opens the door for him, he immediately picks up on the extra weight hanging in the air. Truth is, Jongin doesn’t always let him in with a big smile or with explicit enthusiasm. The tight expression on his face isn’t exactly out of the ordinary. Sometimes it simply means that he’s bone tired or that he’s not really in the mood, but he never turns Sehun away. Neither does he do so now, but there’s something about how he is tonight that makes Sehun feel unwelcome for the very first time.  
  
Over dinner, Sehun tells him about how his colleague—Lee Jinki—accidentally printed out an entire volume of  _yaoi_ manga on the office printer. Jongin indulges him with a light chuckle, but there’s nothing of that mirth in his eyes. Sehun can’t help but feel increasingly uneasy. They fall silent for a while, occasionally interrupted only by slurping noises. But that’s more Sehun than Jongin; Jongin has barely touched his food.  
  
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Sehun finally asks.   
  
Jongin glances up from his bowl and looks at him with a grave expression on his face.   
  
“Sehun, listen. I think—” He sets his chopsticks down on the table with an ominous clatter. The tone he uses is enough to make Sehun nervous. He holds his breath. Something definitely isn’t right.  
  
“I think you need to stop.”  
  
“Stop what?” He has a hunch—but maybe he’s wrong. He  _hopes_  he’s wrong. It’s like Sehun’s heart is on a chopping board and Jongin is holding the cleaver suspended above it.  
  
“ _This_ ,” The dancer straightens his back, forehead creasing impatiently, as he irately makes wide gestures with his hands. “There’s a reason why I didn’t move back in with you. Or why I didn’t go back to Lu Han-hyung’s building. Or why I haven’t given you my number.”  
  
And the blade falls.  
  
Sehun bristles. He feels cold all of a sudden. He swallows thickly, lips drawn thin.  
  
He can feel the weight of Jongin’s words on his shoulders. None of that is untrue. Still, he can choose to stand his ground and say  _‘no, we can make this work, Jongin,’_  but then he realizes that there’s probably no point when that’s all he’s been trying so hard to show him all this time, and yet Jongin can still look him in the eye and tell him to just fucking  _get lost_.   
  
Sehun sneers at his own stupidity.  _I don’t even have his fucking number._  
  
It might just be his imagination but he thinks he may have caught the dancer wince before his gaze falters and drops to the countertop.  _Jajangmyeon_  suddenly seems so unappetizing; almost offensive. He glares at it as he tries to keep the resentment boiling in his gut under control. Faint tapping noises sound rapidly against the window as the wind outside whips violently through the branches. Sehun takes a breath, hands clenching at his sides. The rapping stops.  
  
“Okay,” he mouths quietly, his voice coming out tight.   
  
“Sehun—”  
  
“No, I get it,” Sehun pushes his chair back and grabs his half-finished bowl of black noodles. “I get it. I’m sorry.”  
  
He drops the bowl in the trash and heads for the door, grabbing his coat on the way out. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t hear anyone try to stop him anyway.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
“Maybe he just wanted you to give him some space? You were kind of smothering him,” Jongdae says, ever the blunt one, and spears a piece of  _ttokbokki_  with the pointed end of a wooden stick.  
  
Beside him, Yixing splutters around a large bite of  _odeng_. Sehun gapes at the singer, visibly affronted. A sudden gust of cold autumn breeze causes the loose plastic tarp that serves as the door into the  _pojangmacha_  to flutter briefly.   
  
“There, there.” Chuckling indulgently, the healer reaches across the small round table and pats Sehun’s beanie-clad head. “What he means to say is that maybe Jongin needs some time apart from you to think.”  
  
It’s been a week since he stopped coming over. He doesn’t go to Up Rising’s show either; or at least he doesn’t go with the rest of the group. He shows up during the second night along with Yixing instead.  
  
Sehun pulls a long face and absently stabs at his own serving of spicy rice cakes.  
  
“You’d think nearly four whole months away would be enough time to  _think_ ,” he grumbles. “I’m trying, but I don’t know—it’s like he doesn’t  _want_  to believe that it can work out. I don’t stand a chance.”  
  
He’d be embarrassed about how vulnerable and bitter he sounds, but at this point he really doesn’t care. He can feel his friends’ eyes on him even as they don’t say a word. All of sudden a can of beer clunks on the table in front of him.  
  
“You need this more than I do,” says Jongdae then adds, his voice more gentle, free of barbs, “It seems to me like Jongin’s having a tough time seeing past his fear—and that’s normal, believe me. But both of your hearts are in the right place, Sehunnie. You’ll figure this out.”  
  
Sehun takes a deep breath as he grabs the can.  
  
“I hope so.”

 

   
  
---


	7. Chapter 7

**vii.**  
  
Days later, Sehun is in the middle of wrapping up a late afternoon meeting when he’s struck by a piercing headache that instantly makes him clutch his skull and double over in his chair.   
  
_What the fuck—Lu Han-hyung—_  
  
A low groan of pain rumbles in his throat, tumbling past his mouth, unbidden.  
  
“Oh Sehun-sshi, are you okay?” One of the interns, the last one to step out of the room, eyes him with grave concern.  
  
“Yeah—Yes, I’m fine. You may go,” he manages to croak in response with what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and the poor, confused kid reluctantly leaves.  
  
_Hyung, honestly, you’re killing me—  
  
Do you still want Jongin’s number?_  
  
Lu Han seems distracted, anxious. Sehun pauses, brows knitting together.  
  
_Are you okay, hyung?  
  
Yes or no, Oh Sehun._  
  
Sighing, he reclines in the armchair, cold, dry palms pressing down on tired eyes.  
  
_If he wants me to have it why won’t he give it to me himself?  
  
Because he’s a fucking idiot and so are you. Whatever—I’m sending you his number. Do what you want with it. You people are giving me a headache._  
  
WE _’re giving_  you  _a headache??_  
  
Just then, his phone vibrates in his pocket.   
  
_Talk to him!_  
  
Sehun is convinced that there’s more to it than the telepath is letting on but Lu Han slips away before he can demand answers. Panic surges in his chest fleetingly until he comes to realize that if it were anything serious then Lu Han would have definitely said so. This is what he tells himself as he clocks out earlier than he ever has in the past two weeks, hyperaware of the fact that he has Jongin’s number saved in his contacts now.  
  
Sehun doesn’t phone him. God knows he wants to, but he’s probably not supposed to have his number in the first place.  
  
  
  
That same night, for the first time in a while, Sehun gets the exact same vision as he did the last time it came to him in his sleep. He wakes with a start, cold sweat leaving a thin layer of sheen across his temple. He swallows lungfuls of air as he grabs at the sheets, desperate for anything to anchor him while he tries to shake off the remnants of the bad dream.  
  
It takes a few minutes for his pulse to normalize. He flops face-down on the bed once it does. He used to think that being close to Jongin prompts the premonitions somehow. But it’s been weeks since he’s last seen the man, so apparently that’s not it. He laughs wanly into the sheets. He doesn’t even care. If this is going to bother him either way, he’d much rather have Jongin here to cuddle with and lull him back to sleep after the aftershocks wear off. But sadly, that’s not his call to make right now.  
  
Minutes pass and he almost manages to fall back asleep. Just then, through a sleepy haze he picks up on a rapid, momentary deflection; a warp in the usually steady air, and then the cushion next to him takes a sudden dip. Alarmed, Sehun’s head darts up from where his face was smooshed into a pillow. He instantly freezes, blinking several times to make sure he isn’t just seeing things. What he finds is  _Jongin_ , sound asleep right next to him.  
  
“What—”  
  
He jerks, startled, and the dancer stirs minutely, though not completely waking. And then he vanishes.  
  
Sehun would chalk that up to hallucination, but then it happens again.  
  
The following night, after peeling off his work clothes and taking a shower, he steps out of his room in a threadbare shirt and faded sweats. With a small towel around his neck, his hair still damp and in disarray, he heads for the fridge to try to find something to eat. Out of God-knows-where, Jongin materializes by the doorstep just as he’s passing by the living room. Sehun abruptly stops in his tracks, completely addled as he holds his breath and gapes.  
  
Jongin is slumped over as he faces the wall, one hand pushing against it while the other holds his back. His white shirt is soaked through, blond hair sticking on the trails of sweat down the side of his face. Breathing heavily through gritted teeth, his expression is contorted in a grimace, eyes tightly shut. He doesn’t seem to realize that he’s teleported.  
  
“Jongin?”  
  
The dancer jumps, spins around, and immediately lets out a painful cry. Sehun is at his side in a blink of an eye.  
  
“Easy, easy—”  
  
He stumbles, teetering forward dangerously and Sehun uses his body to break the fall. Jongin’s forehead lands on his shoulder. He presses a steadying hand against the dancer’s back, gently rubbing a palm over the spot where he knows Jongin is most vulnerable. Jongin grabs his other hand as if on instinct, and at that moment it feels like something just falls into place.  
  
“Where am I?” Jongin asks between labored puffs of breath, his voice strained.  
  
“My apartment?”  
  
He can hear Jongin swallow hard as the grip on his fingers tightens briefly. Sehun’s heart breaks a little knowing that the pain must be unbearable right now.  
  
“What am I doing here?”  
  
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he says. “But let’s get you off your feet first, okay?”  
  
Jongin doesn’t argue. He allows Sehun to slowly steer him toward the bedroom. He gingerly sits on the edge of the bed while Sehun goes to grab a clean towel and clothes fresh from the laundry. They don’t miss a beat; just naturally fall back into old routine again, and something inside Sehun tingles in contentment. Jongin mumbles a quiet thanks as he takes the warm towel to pat his face dry with.  
  
“I’ll be right back.” Sehun can’t help it. He cups Jongin’s cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking soft skin with a feather-light touch. Jongin draws a short breath. Sehun quickly withdraws his hand.  
  
He steps out to get some ice and also to give the other man a moment to change out of his clothes. A cold compress would be ideal but he doesn’t have time to freeze it up. He suddenly wishes Minseok were around, but he knows that it’s not quite closing hours yet. He returns shortly with a glass of water and an ice pack.  
  
“You can stay,” offers Sehun later, with only a little bit of hesitation. The glass of water is completely empty on the bedside table now and Jongin is lying on his stomach on the mattress. “If you want to, I mean,” he quickly appends while carefully steadying the ice pack over the dancer’s lumbar curve.  
  
Jongin doesn’t say anything for a while, but Sehun can feel his gaze hot on his back as he goes to adjust the heater a little lower. He knows that Jongin likes the temperature just cool enough that he can still snugly wrap the blankets around himself without being too warm.  
  
“I’m not letting you sleep on the couch,” Jongin quietly says. That’s not a  _‘no’_ , Sehun reckons. It actually sounds kind of like an indirect  _‘yes’_  and Sehun’s gut knots.  
  
“That’s fine,” the wind wielder shrugs nonchalantly. “The bed’s big enough for two.” He really only says it to tease the man. But then he distinctly hears Jongin give a grunt of approval and he swears his heart skips a beat. It’s a good thing he has his back turned so that Jongin doesn’t see his mouth curve up at the corners.  
  
Satisfied with the heater settings, he turns around and finds that Jongin is still watching him. There’s a fluttering in his stomach that he always gets every time he catches the dancer’s eyes on him. His heart squeezes in his chest, and suddenly he’s overwhelmed by the desire to come closer and skate his fingers all over Jongin’s skin and kiss him senseless and—  
  
Sehun inhales deeply, diverting his attention to something much safer, like the wide open door.  
  
“Have you had dinner?”  
  
He hears Jongin chuckle lightly from the bed. “Have  _you_?”  
  
Sehun bites back a laugh when it dawns on him that this will probably be how they will always begin.  
  
“I haven’t, actually. I was about to get something to eat when you...  _showed up_.”  
  
The dancer’s lips draw thin as his cheeks color a light tint of pink.  
  
“I’m sorry. I didn’t... I wasn’t... I’m...”  
  
Sehun cuts him off with a shake of his head. “It’s okay,” he says, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed on his chest and a soft smile on his lips.  
  
_I’m glad I’m the person you want to come to the most when you’re in pain._  Sehun doesn’t actually say it, but the way Jongin fiercely blushes a deeper red and averts his gaze tells him that it probably shows on his face anyway.  
  
  
  
Sehun quietly slips back into the room minutes later after he’s had dinner and brushed his teeth. The soft glow of the lamp by the empty side of the bed helps him not stub his toe into anything as he pads across the carpet. The ice pack is sitting beside the empty glass on the table. It’s pretty much useless now that the cubes in it have most likely melted.  
  
Careful not to rouse the man, he arranges the comforter over Jongin’s body before walking around the other side to slip in beside him. He’s just about to switch off the lamp when he hears a low, rough voice quietly mutter his name.  
  
“Sorry, did I wake you?”  
  
Jongin shakes his head. He does look like he’s been awake all this time, though his eyelids are drooping heavily now. He gingerly readjusts himself so that he’s lying on his side, facing Sehun.  
  
“I’m sorry for what I said back then. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  
  
Sehun shifts on his side as well. Grudgingly, he scoots back as far as he can to maintain a decent space between them. He doesn’t quite know where exactly his boundaries lie at this point and he doesn’t want to fuck anything up.  
  
“It’s cool.”  
  
Jongin smiles softly, and it makes his eyes glimmer in the muted light. Sehun can’t help but mirror it.  
  
“I guess I should explain  _this_ ,” Jongin says. “My teleportation has been kind of off recently. I keep flickering in and out without realizing it. At work, too. Like today. Good thing no one else was at the studio with me. It’s driving Lu Han-hyung insane.”  
  
Sehun mouths a quiet,  _“Oh.”_  That outburst earlier makes a lot of sense all of a sudden.  
  
“I really shouldn’t get caught again,” Jongin adds quietly, seemingly to himself, but Sehun catches it and his eyes narrow at him curiously.  
  
“ _Again_?”  
  
Flinching, Jongin traps his lower lip between his teeth. There’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes, as if realizing a mistake way too late.  
  
“I guess I never told you I met your aunt?”  
  
Sehun blinks, dumbfounded.  
  
“The night of the accident, I was caught on CCTV teleporting with you in an alley near the hospital,” Jongin reluctantly admits when Sehun just continues to gape at him without a word. “They brought me in for investigation and kept me there for two days. Director Lee cited the CCTV evidence as inconclusive and dropped the case. To be fair, it was a really blurry footage. She could have pursued it, though. I guess she let it slide for your sake.”  
  
Sehun wriggles just a tiny bit closer. His hands are itching to hold Jongin—to comfort him, probably; or maybe to comfort  _himself_. He slides them under the pillow instead to keep them from doing anything he might regret.  
  
“Did she meet with you?”  
  
“Yeah, just before I left,” his forehead creases thoughtfully. “I think she figured out that I’m your... trigger.”  
  
Sehun's throat closes up. It's the first time he’s ever heard Jongin acknowledge it openly like that. He looks mighty uncomfortable having the word on his lips, but not repulsed or terrified.  
  
_Baby steps_ , Sehun reminds himself.  
  
“And?”  
  
Jongin shrugs. “Just thanked me for helping you. Then she warned me that I won’t be so lucky next time so she better not see me there ever again.” He scrunches his nose like he tasted something sour and Sehun has to try not to coo and pinch his face. “It felt like she was judging me to the deepest level of my soul the whole time, to be honest. You’ve got nothing on that woman’s coldness scale.”  
  
Sehun can't hold back an amused snort. “Yeah, that sounds like her," he mumbles, his chest filling up with an emotion that he can't quite pin down. Perhaps  _gratitude_  is the closest to it.  
  
He doesn’t realize that he’s grinning until Jongin reaches over to bop him on the nose.  
  
“What are you doing all the way over there?” He rasps playfully, boldly, and there's something in the way the dancer's eyes suddenly comes alive that has Sehun teasing back.  
  
“Dude, if you want me, come and get me.”  
  
Jongin chortles at that and Sehun's heart flutters at the sound. He doesn't move, though; instead, he grabs Sehun around the waist under the covers and tugs. The seer emits a small squeak of surprise at the  _injured_  dancer’s strength as he drags across the cotton sheets. This only makes Jongin laugh louder.  
  
“You’ll fall,” he claims, but the way he shies away from Sehun’s gaze suggests that that’s not really why he’s tucking him closely to his side.  
  
“I already did,” Sehun cheekily says, and then cackles when Jongin groans miserably.  
  
“God, you are so lame. Were you always this lame?”  
  
“Shh,” Sehun yawns, curling into Jongin’s chest like a satisfied cat. “You love me.” The words leave his mouth before his brain can catch up. He holds his breath as he mentally berates himself, ears burning hot.  
  
“Hmm,” Jongin hums. Sehun doesn’t know what that means but he doesn’t ask. He won’t rush things this time.  
  
Sehun feels warm lips pressing against the top of his forehead just before he succumbs to sleep.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
“The teleporter is broken!”  
  
Having seen the extra pair of shoes by the doorway, Sehun isn't even surprised to find Lu Han sprawled on his stomach over the living room rug.  
  
“Calm down, hyung,” he says, patting his landlord’s perky butt as he joins him on the floor. He leans back on the couch, long legs stretched out in front of him.  
  
“Did it happen again today?” he asks, only because it feels like the appropriate follow-up in this particular conversation. But if he’s completely honest, he actually knows the answer to that question.  
  
He tries to keep a straight face as he recalls how utterly confused Jongin looked when he found himself in Sehun’s office,  _sitting on Sehun’s lap_. It lasted only about three seconds, and then he was gone. Immediately after, he sent Jongin a message that said:  _“I see how it is ;)”_  and promptly got a  _“stfu”_  in reply.  
  
Lu Han crawls backward then sits up, shoulders hunched like they weigh a ton. He’s got a weary dullness in his expression that seems so out of place in his youthful features. He just looks really stressed out. Sehun actually kind of feels genuinely bad seeing him this way.  
  
“He doesn't always disappear completely. Sometimes he just flickers very quickly. Like his signal is bad or something. I don’t think he notices it when it happens. Did you talk him?”  
  
“Yes,” is Sehun’s short answer. Afraid of riling up the other man, he deliberately leaves out the fact that Jongin stayed over a couple of nights ago. And that they message each other every day now. And that Jongin has in fact accidentally appeared in his apartment a few times.  
  
But then again, Lu Han isn’t a telepath for nothing. Sehun begins to fidget uneasily as Lu Han intently searches his face with suspicious eyes narrowed into slits.  
  
“He’s been here.” It doesn’t come out as a question.  
  
Sehun says nothing; though he’s pretty sure that the hint of color blooming hot on his cheeks is incriminating enough.  
  
Lu Han gasps loudly, his big eyes expanding into shiny plates. “ _I knew it_! You son of a—”  
  
His entire face lights up like a flame—in joy or in rage, Sehun can’t quite tell right now—and suddenly he’s up on his feet, tone climbing several octaves. “I thought he was...  _malfunctioning_  because he was stressing over your situation, but—oh my God, you two are such  _idiots_!”  
  
_Oh, this is definitely rage,_  Sehun concludes with a small flinch.  
  
As Lu Han proceeds to pace back and forth over the rug, Sehun suddenly feels a hard weight pressing onto his thigh. He’s already smiling before he even looks down. Jongin is still in training clothes but completely dry. He’s probably trying to catch a quick shuteye before leaving the studio for home.   
  
“This is ridiculous! I cannot  _believe_  how dumb you both are,” Lu Han rants on, and the dancer’s face scrunches at the noise. Giggling to himself, Sehun gently pokes at Jongin's cheek. When he blinks and sees Sehun looking down at him, he startles a bit, but doesn't panic.  
  
“Why won’t he just move back in here with you then, so that I don’t have to deal with covering his stupid tracks whenever he accidentally teleports because he  _fucking misses you_?! Idiots! I fucking—”  
  
“Ugh,” Jongin grumbles, rolling on to his side. “So  _loud_ , hyung.”  
  
Lu Han’s head snaps around so fast he’s lucky he doesn’t get whiplash. Sehun bites the inside of his cheek, struggling to keep his laughter in as the telepath’s jaw drops at the sight of Jongin pillowed on his lap. Lu Han pins them with a murderous glare while Jongin seems like he’s just ready to nap again.  
  
“ _Idiots_!” Lu Han roars, arms flapping about wildly in exasperation.  
  
With a suffering sigh—perhaps figuring that Lu Han’s not about to let him have that nap right now—Jongin begrudgingly sits up next to Sehun, slouching on the floor with his back against the couch.  
  
“You!” The dancer gives a start as Lu Han points an accusing finger at him. “You’re moving back in here, Kim Jongin! I swear—”  
  
“Hyung, will you—”  
  
“Shush! Don’t test me!” He stares them down, as if daring them to object. Sehun purses his lips, pretending to zip them and drop the key. Then he glances over to Jongin who merely blinks slowly, obviously too sleepy to bother with any sort of rebuttal.  
  
Their silence seems to appease Lu Han, thankfully. He storms off huffing, but not before tossing a  _“prepare to move out tomorrow,”_  over his shoulder just as he reaches the doorway. He looks like he’s going to slam the door shut; but then he seems to change his mind at the last minute, maybe after remembering that this is  _his_  building. Sehun snorts as the door closes with barely any sound. Beside him, Jongin folds his legs up to his chest, sliding down an inch, and tilts his head on Sehun’s shoulder.  
  
“You okay?” Sehun feels more than sees Jongin nod.  
  
“Just tired,” he manages to mumble over a big yawn.  
  
As if on instinct, Sehun reaches over to rub a hand over the dancer’s lower back. The material of his shirt is thin enough for body heat to seep through and wrap around his fingers. Jongin hums appreciatively, scoots closer until they’re hip to hip.  
  
“See, I told you you shouldn’t have unpacked everything,” Sehun jokes, partly to distract from his escalating pulse.  
  
“I didn’t,” Jongin admits and Sehun’s heart skips. He knows that Lu Han isn't kidding about making Jongin move back in, but he also knows that in spite of everything he said, he won't really force the issue if Jongin refuses—which he doesn’t do. And he’s still  _here_. And  _he didn’t unpack all of his things_.  
  
“So,” Sehun begins, suddenly at a loss for words.  
  
“So...?”  
  
He can hear the smile in Jongin's voice.  
  
“Have you had dinner?”  
  
Jongin immediately bursts into laughter, head lolling back blissfully. Then he’s pulling away, but only to climb into Sehun's lap, his knees planted on either side of Sehun’s thighs. He props both hands against the couch above Sehun’s head, trapping him in place. Not that he minds. It’s not like he wants to be anywhere other than right here right now.  
  
Jongin’s eyes lock with his. Suddenly it’s a little bit harder to breathe.  
  
“I’d rather have you, honestly,” he confesses and Sehun swears his heart makes a full stop.  
  
His hands come up to rest just under Jongin’s clavicles, fingers balling into his shirt. There’s something extremely satisfying about the way the dancer’s heartbeat pounds hard and fast against his knuckles.  
  
Sehun catches Jongin’s gaze flick downward to his mouth. He sensually bites his lower lip on purpose and fights back a smirk when it elicits the desired effect. A strangled whimper rumbles in Jongin’s chest as he leans forward, barely close enough to touch. There's a telltale squeak of the faux-leather behind him as Jongin grips it harder, his long, sinewy arms flexing tight from the effort. His dark eyes are half-lidded but clearly uninterested in any sort of nap now.  
  
Sehun’s brow archs, taunting. His fingers unfurl and splay over the dancer’s chest.  
  
“You’d rather have me than sleep?”  
  
Jongin presses his lips together and squints, as if to contemplate this carefully. Sehun’s beginning to consider dumping him on his ass on the floor, but then Jongin smiles and he forgets to breathe again. His eyes are sparkling, open and honest. Sehun marvels at how there’s no struggle, no hesitation there anymore.  
  
“I think I love you a lot more than I love sleep,” he says softly, gently brushing away a few stubborn strands away from Sehun’s eyes.  
  
It feels like fire is surging through his veins instead of blood and Sehun hates,  _hates_  the restrictive pressure in his throat and the stinging behind his eyes because he is not going to cry now. He is  _not_. He  _refuses_  to. But then Jongin is cupping his face in his warm hands and dropping a kiss on his forehead and he fails to curb a sob because  _fuck_ , he is so in love with this man. And he’s waited a long time for them to get to this point. For Jongin to tell him that  _it’s okay_.  
  
“You fucker,” his voice breaks and Jongin,  _that bastard_ , actually  _coos_  at him. He ducks his head while the lower back of the dancer’s shirt bunches between his clenched fists.  
  
“I love you,” Jongin repeats, wrapping him up in a tight hug, and this time Sehun lets out a soft chuckle.  
  
“More than sleep, yes, I heard you. I am honored,” he deadpans, mock-sulking into the man’s shirt. He smells of dewberry shampoo and fabric conditioner and soap and just  _Jongin_ , and Sehun loves how it smells like home.  
  
“You should be,” he asserts, mimicking a cocky tone, and Sehun’s eyes roll.  
  
“Now about me having you for dinner—”  
  
Sehun draws away then, creating just enough space so that he can look at Jongin and allow his hands to skim deliciously slow down the dancer’s chest, across the hard planes of his stomach, through the thin material of his shirt.  
  
“I think that can be arranged,” he smirks suggestively, his voice deep and playful. A soft gasp slips out of Jongin’s lips when Sehun lightly strokes over a pert nipple. And then he's leaning down and something explodes behind Sehun’s eyes.  
  
Jongin kisses him hard and  _Oh God_ , he’s missed this so much. Sehun’s back arches off of the cushion, chasing the dancer’s heat until his torso is flush against Jongin’s. He sighs when Jongin licks at edge of his mouth, eager to taste. Sehun parts his lips wider, granting him all the access he wants, while searing palms slide under his shirt, trailing electricity along the jut of his spine. Deft fingers make quick work of his pants before skittering down the backside, finding purchase on the generous curve of his ass. Jongin gives the smooth flesh a squeeze and Sehun breathes out a deep, guttural moan. Jongin’s sweatpants are easier to deal with, thank God, and it’s not long before shirts come flying off, too.  
  
There’s a jolt of  _something_  cutting like the crack of a whip under Sehun’s skin; and the next thing he knows there are pillows under his head and a soft mattress on his back. Jongin is on top of him, braced on his elbows, one knee sliding up between his legs.  
  
Sehun grins as he holds Jongin’s shoulders. “Nice landing— _oh_ ,” he gasps when he feels the dancer palm the growing bulge through his boxers. His hands come up to tangle fingers in Jongin’s hair, tugging him down for a kiss. But the dancer holds still just mere inches away from the target. He’s breathing hard through his mouth, his dark eyes blown-out, blond hair a complete, agonizingly attractive wreck. Sehun doesn’t hold back the anguished whine that drags out from his throat; doesn’t give a single fuck if he sounds desperate or needy, because right now he really kind of is.  
  
“Easy,” Jongin soothes, but then he readjusts himself by rolling his hips, causing his own erection to push against Sehun’s thigh, and they both let out a groan.  
  
“ _Fuck_ , Jongin, just—”  
  
Jongin doesn’t budge. “Wait, hold on,” Sehun stares at him, confused and wondering why he’s even talking right now.  
  
“We’re really doing this,” Jongin mutters breathily. “Are you sure you really want to do this, Sehun?” he asks.  
  
Sehun pauses. He takes in every solemn detail of Jongin’s expression. He can see in the way his mouth trembles, in the way he swallows down his nerves, that he must be feeling so exposed right now. Jongin holds steady despite the desire that’s visibly pulsing in his body, and just watches Sehun’s face. Waiting.  
  
He knows Jongin isn’t talking about sex. He’s talking about everything else. About the rest of their life. Two Red Flag Hybrids. A seer and his target. It’s a disastrous combination, possibly the worst one  _ever_. Sehun doesn’t really need another second to think about it.  
  
“Listen to me,” he says firmly, no false impressions this time. “I love you. So fucking much and all I want is to be with you. That’s it.”  
  
He looks straight at Jongin, cheeks turning a fiery crimson, but he doesn’t falter for a second. Jongin blinks and Sehun can swear he sees a glimmer of moisture along the edges there, but he doesn’t get a chance to tease him about it because Jongin is diving for his mouth. He can maybe do that later. Or tomorrow. They’ve got all the time in the world now.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
It's during the night before New Year's Eve when Sehun gets a premonition again. It's not much different from the last ones, except it's a little more drawn out and vivid this time.  
  
A lot of white everywhere. White walls. White sheets. He catches the steady hum of machines and beeping sounds in regular intervals. Breathing doesn't come easy despite the thing that’s attached to his nose. Moving is difficult and painful, like every bone in his body is too heavy and too brittle. But the soft glow dancing in the corner of his eye is too inviting. Slowly, his head turns and he sees the most beautiful palette of orange and purple hues splashed across the sky. He almost wants to reach for it but then it seems like his left hand is strapped onto something heavy, rendering it immobile, while his right hand is weighed down by something warm. He tries to wriggle his fingers. The warm weight lightly wriggles back. It takes a lot of effort but he manages to turn his head to the other side.  
  
There’s a man lying beside him. His hair has thinned out so much. Whatever remains of it is silver instead of black. Or blond. His skin is wrinkled, not smooth and supple like it used to be, but still the color of sweet caramel. He looks very different; he himself probably doesn’t look much like he used to. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t recognize that shapely mouth, pulled into a crooked curve. And those eyes. How could he forget those eyes?  
  
The warm hand that’s entwined with his gives a weak squeeze. As though to reassure him that he’s not alone. And that, more than anything else, is what feels like home to him.  
  
  
Sehun doesn’t wake from this one with a jolt. He does jerk a bit, though, and as he’s currently the little spoon to Jongin’s big spoon, and completely naked at that, the sudden shift unwittingly shakes the dancer awake.  
  
“Hey, you okay?” Jongin slurs, voice thick with sleep.  
  
It takes him a few seconds to respond, but once he’s somewhat contained the deluge of emotions ramming into his chest, he inhales, deep and slow, and turns in Jongin’s arms. It’s weird how coming out from that vision, it feels like he’s seeing his own boyfriend for the first time. It’s strange how he yearns to touch him, to trace the outline of his face with his fingertips. He reaches for the dancer’s hand instead, threading fingers together.  
  
“Yeah, I'm sorry I woke you.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Jongin studies his face. He seems unconvinced even when Sehun nods in reply, but ultimately he decides to let it go.  
  
“Since when were you a light sleeper, anyway? I barely moved.”  
  
“I don't even know. Must’ve been a glitch. Don't get used to it.” He practically yawns that last part out. Soon enough Jongin’s eyelids are fluttering shut again. His shoulders heave as he takes a long inhale through his nose, and then his breathing evens out.  
  
He looks adorable like this, Sehun thinks. He might be a teeny bit biased, but he still thinks Jongin is beautiful. And most certainly sexy as fuck. It hits him suddenly that he’s going to wake up to this every day for a long, long time. Suddenly his heart is overflowing with more affection than it can contain and he just... he needs...  
  
“Hey, Kim Jongin,” Sehun lightly squeezes the dancer’s hand.  
  
“Hm?”  
  
Sehun swallows, words tripping over each other as they race inside his head.  
  
_I’m so glad I met you. I hope you know how much you mean to me. I hope I’m making you just as happy as you make me every day. You’re my home._  
  
“I love you,” he says simply, because that’s really what it all boils down to.  
  
Jongin smiles before opening his eyes. In fact, he doesn’t open his eyes until he’s got Sehun pinned under his weight, their lips pressed together.  
  
“I love you, too,” he whispers into Sehun's mouth. “Hey, wait a second.” Jongin is suddenly pushing himself up on his hands, eyes playfully reduced to little suspicious slits. "Are you trying to get into my pants, Oh Sehun?”  
  
Sehun cocks an eyebrow at his stupid boyfriend and drawls, “You have no pants.”  
  
Jongin chortles. “That,” He shifts sharply and the seer grunts when a thigh grazes his half-hard cock. “Is true.”  
  
Jongin props himself on his elbows, amusement and unfathomable adoration dancing in his eyes. He leans down a bit, briefly brushing their noses together. Sehun thinks he really doesn’t mind waking up to this every single day of his life.  
  
“So what do you say?” Jongin wriggles his eyebrows. “You wanna take advantage of that or what?”  
  
It’s about two in the morning and they both have to get up in a few hours, but Sehun laughs gleefully and crashes Jongin’s mouth to his anyway.  
  
  
**fin.**

 

   
  
---


End file.
